If Your God Were Real
by Shinigami Yumi
Summary: SolKy. Canon AU. What if Ino never changed history, and mankind really lost the Holy War? Immortality can be both a blessing and a curse. Full summary within.
1. Chains

**Summary: **They say if you live long enough, you will meet people you once thought forever lost again. What if I-No never changed history, and mankind really lost the Holy War? Sol managed to kill Dizzy, and disappeared into hiding like Testament, but mankind had suffered massive losses. In a bleak world torn apart by the grim costs of warfare, survivors of the war try to return to some semblance of peace and normalcy. SHOUNEN-AI, YAOI. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

**A/N: **Because you just knew someone was going to write something like this eventually and because I liked that dream I had way too much to resist. In fact, I'm amazed no one has done it yet. Yeah, I know how terribly cliché it is, but then, it just had to happen someday. So why not have fun pioneering it? My first serious Guilty Gear fic, so please tell me what you think. An extrapolation of the canon alternate universe in Drama CD Side Red, as well as a death and reincarnation fic, which therefore contains spoilers for Drama CD Side Red, the dialogue translations of which I did myself for the section used, since I unfortunately never got my hands on the translation done by Edward Chang, which would have saved me some effort. Most years are canon; exact dates were never specified and are therefore fictionalized. I try to stick to whatever I know as canon to the best of my ability, but when no canon information is available, I take my liberties. XD Since this version of reality never really existed, I had more freedom and quite a lot of fun writing this fic. I hope you enjoy it and review.

**Disclaimer: **If Guilty Gear belonged to me, this would be a BL anime instead of a fanfiction. Furthermore, the word FANfiction should tell you everything you need to know.

Shinigami Yumi

presents

**If Your God Were Real**

_Sometimes destiny is what you make it_

_Sometimes people just can't fight it_

_Someone somewhere is always listening_

_So always be wary of what you're saying_

Chapter 1: Chains  


"I came to get you." The deep somewhat raspy voice was a little hard to hear after all the noise from just a moment ago, but he caught the words nonetheless.

Ky Kiske smiled despite the pain as the familiar face of his long-time rival, and perhaps the only man who had ever truly known him, even if he were often reluctant to call him friend, entered his field of vision. "Always late… You could never fix that…" he bit out almost fondly between short gasps of breath. Granted, he hadn't really expected Sol to come save him at all, and truthfully, he was rather glad he had. He could even imagine the American's reaction to hearing about what he had done.

"_If that childish boy naively thinks he can save the world alone, then let him try," _Sol would say gruffly to the reporting soldier. Ky would have laughed right then had the wound in his chest not been so painful. It was ironic that he was only now considering that maybe the other had been right; maybe he was an idealistic child refusing to see the reality beyond his hopes. However, he couldn't bear the thought that thousands of people were going to die if he waited for the reinforcements before acting. At least St. Peter's Cathedral was still standing. _Maybe we can't afford to look down, Sol, _he thought wistfully. _Maybe hope is all we have left._

"You…" Sol Badguy lifted the slender blond boy he had come perhaps just a little too late to save into his arms where he knelt on the dusty pavement of Rome, the other's blood pooling around his knees like a sea of red.

"As expected…" It was hard to speak, possibly due to the blood filling his lungs, but there were things that needed to be said. "Until the end, I couldn't defeat you…" The American's arms were warm, so warm, and he had never imagined the brunet as capable of being this gentle. He almost moved closer.

"Shut up." Pointless words, utterly. Of course, he couldn't, but he didn't even know why. Not that it mattered anymore. His first glance at the boy when he arrived had told him the Frenchman wasn't going to make it, no matter how surprisingly reluctant he had found himself to accept that fact, no matter how much he suddenly realised he wished otherwise.

"I…" He just managed not to choke on the blood rising in his windpipe. "…have a request…" He blinked slowly to clear his blurring vision as his rival cradled his body closer with amazing tenderness.

"I just said shut up."

That boy was always soaring up above, carried by his ideals and hopes, like the angel he was to the crumbling world he had fought so valiantly to save. Even in the end, he refused to fall like other men, his eyes having none of that fear of oblivion Sol had often seen in the eyes of his dying brethren. Perhaps it was his blind faith in his God; as self-assured as he was of going to heaven, he probably found death nothing to fear. The kid was innocent and naïve to the end, but for him now, perhaps it was for the best.

Ky moved to fist his hand in the other's red leather jacket. "Please take over…" It was so hard to get the words out. "…the command… of the Holy Order."

"Stop it. That's your job," Sol growled angrily.

The blond reached up with the last of his strength to brush his thumb briefly against the brunet's cheek. The speck of moisture there seemed so terribly out of place. "Please… promise me…" It was getting hard to breathe.

"God damn it..." The American swore, voice unexpectedly thick with emotion as he pressed his hand fiercely to his cheek with his own.

Ky offered a faint smile at that. Sol should know that he hated it when people swore, especially when God was made a part of it, but he said nothing about it. It wasn't important now anyway. He knew that Sol was blaming himself, the way he blamed himself for too many things he'd never know about. Sol was an idiot that way. Certainly, his tardiness was at least partially to blame, but what did that matter in the end? Even if people sat around assigning blame for centuries, it wouldn't change anything. At least, he had come anyway. The Commander of the Holy Order was glad for the older man's almost seemingly grudging company in these last moments, but he would never tell the brunet that, because at least… at least, if he felt guilty about it, Sol would promise him. He needed Sol to promise him. For the sake of the world, he prayed that the Heavenly Father would forgive a little guilt-tripping.

It was cold now, and getting colder every second. It was like falling… Sol's face seemed to be growing further and farther away. He fought to get enough air in to say one last thing. "If… it's… you…" It occurred to him that he had never quite seen those mismatched red and gold eyes look so sad. "…you… can… do it…" He had hope. Hope ran eternal… even if he was no longer there to carry it on. Sol…Sol, who had always been stronger than him, would be able to carry it further than he ever could, no? Sol, who had always told him to grow up, would keep that hope alive for him maturely… He was sure of it. More then anyone else, he trusted the American; he always had, even without realizing it. He vaguely felt his hand fall to the ground as the strength to even keep his eyes open slipped away from him. Sol… If you're here, I can be at peace…he thought as he sank into the cool embrace of nothingness, away from the pain.

"OI," the prototype Gear gently shook the limp body of one of the few humans who had had anything more than a passing significance in his long life. "What happened? Oi! KY!"

The wind picked up in the half-ruined city of Rome just as the sun dipped below the horizon in the west as if to mark the boy's heroic end. Sol cradled the blond's body closer as he lifted it to shield it from the rising dust in the air, placing the long magical sword he himself had designed on its former wielder. It didn't really make any difference, but they would probably want their hope and hero brought back for a proper burial. Humans were sentimental like that. They had shorter lives and fewer memories, so they wanted to hold onto every one of those. He… He had too many memories that he wanted to forget. What was the use in grasping onto more that were already fading?

He gazed at the boy's face once more as he began walking back towards the rest of the Holy Order in the fading daylight, so peaceful in the trust that his last wish would be granted despite repeated declinations that he could have simply been asleep. Many would have wished that, of course, but it was too late for wishes and prayers now. It was too late for anything now, and once again, it was all his fault, just like it had been right from the start. That was why he was still here; he still had this responsibility even if he no longer desired very much to continue his extended existence, a symbol of everything that was wrong with this crumbling world, crumbling because he once had a dream that greedy humans twisted for their own selfish desires.

The prototype Gear almost smiled for the first time in longer than he could remember, albeit sadly. Of course he had already accepted the boy's final charge. Their ultimate goals had always been the same despite their dissent on the methods involved. Over the stench of blood and carnage carried on the wind, he could still pick up the late Commander's sweet scent of honey and vanilla. As the final rays of sunlight caught on a lock of soft blond hair, he couldn't help but whisper an almost bitter afterthought.

"If your God were real, boy, you'd still be here."

* * *

A woman screamed in pain as her body was torn by labour. Just outside her hospital room in Venice, her husband rushed towards the door, running as fast as he could to his wife's side.

"These are troubled times to have a child, signore," a man said softly as he passed.

"But perhaps new life will bring new hope," he muttered in reply without stopping, his shoulder-length golden hair flying back as he ran.

Rome had been destroyed just the day before, and Commander Ky Kiske of the Holy Order had fallen in that overwhelming battle along with a massive number of humans. The world was in mourning, and the Vatican had been quick to declare his sainthood despite the restoration works in progress. He remembered the man well, and there had never been anyone more deserving of leading mankind in the Crusade against the Gears than Sir Kiske. He had been their guiding light, always inspiring hope where there was none, and sometimes, even if it looked impossible, if he said it could be done, everyone was willing to believe it and give up everything for that elusive victory. He wished he could have been a part of the regiment that had been by the Commander's side in that battle, but he had just returned from defending Moscow from a separate Gear attack.

He burst through the door to have his ears assailed by the first cries of a newborn, more specifically, his baby. Andrea Belucci walked over to the woman he had married just three years before, and gazed silently at her as she cradled his child in her arms. With tears in her eyes and a loving smile on her face framed by her long mussed up black hair, her body covered in the sheen of perspiration, he thought his beloved Maria had never looked so beautiful. They would move to Corsica soon after this, where it was closer to the headquarters of the Holy Order in Paris and under heavier surveillance. It would be safer for them there. He smiled at her as she reached for his hand.

"I want to name him after him…" she told him, her soft voice tired but filled with joy.

"Him?" he enquired as the baby in her arms opened tiny eyes wider. He had his mother's clear blue eyes.

"The one who fell defending my hometown, Roma…" she elaborated in her gentle alto.

Andrea nodded agreeably. He couldn't have asked for a better or nobler namesake. Reaching out to touch his son's short blond strands, he hoped the child would grow into a great man and bring further honour to that name.

* * *

_…On 4th July 2173AD, the Gears launched a major offensive against the city of Rome. Nearby Holy Order forces rushed to the city's defence without waiting for reinforcements upon the orders of their High Commander, Ky Kiske. The battle ended in a crushing defeat to the forces of man, as well as the devastating demise of Sir Kiske, the reinforcements having arrived minutes too late. To this day, his death is commemorated worldwide annually on what is now known as St. Kiske's Day, often with visits to Rome or to his memorial in Paris._

_Following that key battle, Sol Badguy, an immensely strong fighter whom sources inside the Holy Order describe as having been a rival and possible close friend of the late Commander Kiske who made up extensively in power what he lacked in social skills, assumed leadership of the Holy Order. On 11th September 2178AD, mankind suffered yet another massive loss with a Gear attack on the United Nations' Headquarters lead by Justice herself, the most significant of which was the passing of Johnny, the charismatic and charitable leader of the Jellyfish Pirates. However, the battle also ended with the destruction of Justice, and was therefore celebrated despite the overwhelming number of deaths and casualties._

_Yet just as everyone heaved a sigh of relief in anticipation of peaceful times to come, more Gear attacks had Holy Order forces once again on high alert. Unbeknownst to man, Justice had a daughter, another command-type Gear by the name of Dizzy. Evidently embittered by the loss of her mother, Dizzy had taken control of the Gear forces and resumed the War against humanity._

_Finally, an all-out attack on the Gear Plant, which Dizzy was using as a base, was lead by Commander Sol Badguy on 8th February 2183AD with the added aid of the Jellyfish Pirates under the command of May, and Zeppian forces lead by Potemkin. The destruction of Dizzy at the end of the battle marked, at long last, the end of the Holy War, but at a terrible cost. Holy Order forces had been almost completely annihilated, and the Jellyfish Pirates were also no more. Zeppian commander, Potemkin, met his end at the hands of Testament, a high-level Gear who promptly vanished into hiding after the death of Dizzy at the hands of Commander Sol._

_Some of the stronger Gears, having returned to instinct-driven operation, had quickly escaped upon the death of their leader, perhaps sensing imminent danger, while the vast majority of Gears, having lost the ability to function, were immediately destroyed by remaining Holy Order forces. The Holy Order continues to conduct search-and-destroy missions today to hunt down the remaining Gears under the command of Arianne Thallassa, a captain left in charge following the sudden disappearance of Commander Sol Badguy soon after the final battle…_

Ky Belucci carefully closed the history book he was reading. It had been eight years since that final battle. By and large, life was peaceful now, although people still lived in fear of the occasional Gear attack. The human population was only a quarter of what it used to be before the Holy War, as disease and famine had spread along with the carnage, and while the problems had mostly been remedied, they had taken their toll on the populace. With the end of the war, people had returned to more peaceful pursuits, which was why he was sitting here going through history books to write an essay on the Holy War for his university application form. He didn't know how an essay regarding the Holy War, and occasionally his namesake, helped universities select students for any field besides history, but it was part of the application form for all programmes in all universities. Well, all universities in Paris, at least.

He still remembered the day Dizzy's death had been proclaimed. Everyone in Corsica, where he had been living with his mother then, had rejoiced, only to have all their joy dissipate with the announcement of the unimaginably massive death toll. His father had also died in the attack that day, much to his mother's distress. Personally, he hadn't felt the man's loss as keenly as she had, since his father had always gone wherever the Order sent him and as a result, had never been around much to begin with. Indeed, he barely knew the man.

Ky sat up and stretched, shaking out his golden blond hair that ended just a little below slim shoulders. The clock on the wall said that it was six in the evening; it was about time for dinner, and he was starting to feel hungry anyway. Tugging on his cream-coloured button-down shirt to straighten out a few creases, he slipped his notebook and pencil case into his blue and white sling bag, and placed the books he had been using back on their respective shelves. With that, he exited the Parisian library, stepping out into the warm summer air.

He fingered the large golden crucifix around his neck absently as he walked back towards the studio apartment he had rented just a few blocks away. He had moved to Paris to study medicine in the universities here, but his mother had chosen to remain in Corsica, where she was earning a fairly good income from teaching. Half the lasagne he had made yesterday was in the freezer and would be ready to eat after a few minutes in the microwave.

Suddenly, he paused. Something was just not right. As he stood, wondering what the sudden bad feeling he couldn't seem to shake was all about, he was abruptly almost deafened by a loud keening noise. He clapped his hands over his ears with a sharp cry, only to sink his knees as the pain started again. Doctors had never managed to figure out the cause of the severe chest pains that had plagued him whenever he was distressed from as far back as he could remember. He groaned both from the excruciating agony and the horrible timing just as a large Gear landed on the road just several feet away, crushing two unfortunate bystanders and creating a long fissure in the asphalt that ended just beside him.

_So much for that university application; I'm probably going to die here anyway, _he thought with a little resentment as he looked up at the Gear, which rather resembled an armoured mammoth with fangs, horns, clawed feet and a long tail in addition to the tusks. _I guess it's always my fate to be killed by Gears._ The creature swung its long trunk in his direction, and he forced himself to roll aside swiftly despite the debilitating pain that made even breathing laborious. Miraculously, he managed to escape the blow unscathed, but he highly doubted his blessings would last. At least it was slow for its size.

Just as the monster was about to swing the next blow, a red blur abruptly entered his field of vision, and the trunk was lying on the ground an instant later. Ky had to cover his ears when it shrieked loudly as black ichor spurted from the wound. He felt sick, but somehow managed not to throw up from the noxious stench in the air. That liquid was the closest thing Gears had to blood. He wouldn't call it blood. If they had blood, then they bled; if they bled, they were human, and that they certainly weren't. Even as it screeched, a spiral of flame shot right through it, and with a final scream, the creature collapsed to the ground with a resounding crash.

All was silent as he slowly clambered to his feet, dusting off his clothes slightly. The pain in his chest had faded into a dull ache, and he was mercifully uninjured. A quick look around told him that aside from some damage to the surrounding buildings, there appeared to be no casualties. There was nothing he could do to help the two that the monster had crushed upon landing. He suddenly wished it had landed on him instead. At least one less person would have died.

That was when he spotted a tall brunet walking away from the fallen Gear in his direction, the other's long brown hair carried slightly by the breeze blowing from the western sunset. He wore a short red sleeveless leather jacket over a tight black tank top tucked into white jeans, an outfit that fit snugly around his muscular body and lean hips. A bulky red headband rested on his tanned brow, and the belt around his waist looked like the kind Holy Order members wore. As the other neared, it finally clicked in Ky's mind that the man was probably the red blur from moments before, and that he therefore owed him his life. He could just make out the words "Rock You" carved into the headband, as well as obtain a closer look at his weapon, as the man walked closer.

"Um, thanks for saving me," he said quietly just as the brunet was about to pass him by. "Commander Sol Badguy?" he tried. He had seen pictures of the Fuuenken in some of the books regarding the Holy Order that he had read, and no one else could have been in possession of that sword.

Sol paused at the sound of his name in slightly accented English, and drove the Fuuenken into the ground beside him to grab a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. "I wasn't," he muttered, shaking one out to hold between his lips as he took a silver lighter out of his other pocket.

Ky blinked. "Pardon?" he asked, wondering why the other man even carried a lighter, let alone used it, when he was obviously a master of fire magic.

"I wasn't saving anyone," he clarified, sounding as if he rather begrudged having done so. "Just killing Gears as usual." The lighter clicked sharply before a cloud of tobacco smoke rose up beside the blond.

The younger of the two recalled with more than a little annoyance the words of history books describing the American as lacking extensively in sociability what he had in power, and resisted the urge to snap back that the Holy Order was formed for the purpose of defending the populace from Gears. "My name is Ky Belucci," he introduced himself instead, forcing an easy tone into his slightly nasal tenor.

"Ah. One of those." The current Commander of the Holy Order slid mismatched red and gold eyes towards his slender companion. His predecessor's popularity had soared even further following his early demise and prompt sainthood. Everywhere he went not too long after that, people were naming their kids after the boy. He hadn't even saved the world. Sol couldn't imagine the level of idolization he would have been subject to had he actually lived to do so. "You're doing a pretty good job appearance-wise," he remarked with a smirk, taking in the cream-coloured button-down shirt with cross-shaped buttons and navy blue slacks the other was wearing. "Except for the hair. The boy was far too prissy to ever leave it that long."

It took a moment for Ky to realize that the other was talking about his namesake. He chuckled at the last comment. "This?" He flicked soft flaxen strands back gently. "I keep it like this because my mother says it reminds her of my late father. And you really should quit smoking, you know. It's bad for you."

"Gah," the brunet made a sound of disgust. "Even the personality's about there." That said, he pulled his sword out of the ground and resumed walking, looking as if he couldn't wait to get out of the other's presence.

"Eh, wait!" the blond called, suddenly noticing the gash in the American's right arm, most likely given by the monster he'd just felled. He had to run to intercept the other, who raised a dark eyebrow at him, evidently having been rather intent on ignoring him. He held his left hand over the wound, and it glowed briefly. "There. To say thanks for saving me." He offered the older man a sunny smile, biting back a tempting comment on the other's reluctance, before running off in the direction of his apartment just as Sol turned to look at his arm.

The wound was gone.

* * *

He awoke to the sick stench of burnt flesh and the familiar metallic smell of Gear ichor mixed with human blood. He had sunk to his knees in exhaustion. Everywhere he looked, the dead and the dying lined the ruined streets of the city they had been called to defend. Beads of sweat slid slowly down his face and dripped from his chin, fizzling for a moment on the sword he had dropped at his knees. The rescue units were hurrying around to save anyone that they could. There were so many… so many… 

A heavy emptiness settled in his chest, as if his heart had turned to lead and taken a sinking plunge into nothingness. Most of the civilians had been evacuated, but there were so many who hadn't managed to escape in time and so many of his men who had fallen with them. If only they had arrived earlier, or sent an evacuation alarm sooner, or… No, now was no time to run through these bygone possibilities. Morale was important; he mustn't let the men see him like this.

He found himself slowly climbing to his feet. The wind tousled his blond hair, at least what part of it that wasn't plastered to his skin in a sticky mixture of perspiration, blood and ichor, but the air was hot and offered no respite from the dry fever of battle. Slowly, tiredly, he stepped forward, making his way back to camp. Left and right, people he had known lay unmoving on the dusty ground with blood pooling around them, most with their eyes wide open in horror, some with parts of their bodies missing.

A particularly familiar face gelled with a name in his mind and some memories. Jean had often spoken of his four hyperactive children and mild-mannered wife with a fond tone to his mellow bass. He remembered the days when the man had brought him soup and pastries from the sweet lady he'd only briefly met once. Madame Anya would be distraught. He slid his eyes shut, unwilling to see anymore, and resolutely faced forward. When blue eyes opened, they seemed glazed over, and he continued forward half-unseeing. His vision was blurring, and his throat felt tight. Maybe it was all the dry dust carried in the wind.

Suddenly, he found himself face to face with red and white cloth. He had inadvertently walked into someone as he had been stumbling along, lost in his regrets. Muttering an apology, he stepped back and pushed past without looking up.

"This is war, boy. People die," the man he'd just bumped into remarked matter-of-factly.

He spun around, feeling rage boil over at the other's cold words, such words coming from someone who'd never even made a real effort to do anything like protect something important. "You…" How heartless could he be? "You… They… They were good men! Good, respectable, God-fearing men, and they died for a noble cause!" His voice rose to a near-scream, and he just managed not to add the words, 'unlike you' as he reached out to aim a punch at the other's well-built chest. He managed to get in one punch before the other fixed a vice-like grip on his wrist with his free hand and held on. "They had families! And friends and… and LIVES! They were people you and I both knew, and fought alongside with! How could you be so… so heartless!" He nearly choked on the words as a tidal wave of emotion abruptly welled up from that vacuum his heart had fallen into and threatened to overflow. He wrapped his other arm around himself in a futile effort to stop that torrent of something that felt like it was about to explode out of his chest. He felt a familiar wetness on is cheeks and lowered his head even more than it already was. God, no… why, of all people, did he have to let this man see his tears! He'd just have the fact that he was baby rubbed into his face more than it already was. "How could you…"

The hand around his wrist tugged him forward sharply, and he stumbled, ending up with his face pressed to the soft fabric of the other's uniform. He tried to push away, but an arm snaked around his waist, and he no longer had the energy to fight the other's stronger hold. To his surprise, the other said nothing as sobs racked his body until he finally exhausted himself, blacking out in a warm embrace…

And Ky arched up sharply in bed, a loud cry escaping his lips as a familiar pain seared through his chest. He curled up on his side, wrapping his arms around himself and biting his bottom lip to keep from screaming again as wave after wave of pain shot through his nervous system. He sighed tiredly as the pain finally receded, rubbing his chest gently to ease away the remaining echoes as he rolled back onto his back. His chest pain attacks were common after nightmares, perhaps due to the strong lingering fear the frightening visions left behind, but this dream… It hadn't really been frightening, more like horrifyingly vivid.

The blond shook himself slightly to rid his mind of the image of blood-soaked dead men and women lining ruined city streets, their eyes wide open in the terror of having watched their enemies viciously hacking them to pieces. He remembered having had many nightmares as a child of fighting brutal battles, but having grown up surrounded by constant warfare, it wasn't anything unusual. Carding fingers through blond locks, he stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought. The dream had been so very vivid, almost like a fragment of a memory…

* * *

The fourth of July was a sombre day, particularly in France, and was usually observed like a religious holiday. People fasted and went to church. Those who could visited St. Kiske's memorial in a garden near the Arc de Triomphein Paris with flowers and white candles. The day's highlight was the midday march by members of the Holy Order, when they would march from their Headquarters to their former leader's memorial, and then on to a different church in Paris every year. This year they went to St. Sulpice. 

Personally, Ky Belucci thought it was just a bit much, since his namesake had yet to actually save the world before dying, and he doubted the Commander before him, Sir Kliff Undersn, had garnered such worship. However, since Commander Undersn had been buried in America, or what was left of it, he really had no way of knowing for sure. His mother had taken him to his namesake's memorial once when he was very young. The area around it had been strewn with bouquets of white lilies and roses, as well as many white candles. He absently wondered if the people would do the same for Commander Sol Badguy if and when he passed away, and somehow doubted the likelihood of that possibility.

It was half past eleven at night as he approached the garden where Ky Kiske's memorial had been erected, the place quiet and peaceful now that the last of the pilgrims had paid their respects. Ever since the Holy War had begun, people rarely stayed out past eleven at night anyway, and the practice had stuck even after the war had ended. He was only coming this late to avoid the crowd anyway, and since tomorrow was his birthday, he figured he'd have a midnight birthday picnic at his namesake's memorial. Hence the cheesecake and tea he had brought along with the casablancas and candles.

The night air was crisp and cool, almost roughly chafing his fair skin as he walked, absently tracing the large golden crucifix against the soft wool of his beige pullover with his fingers. Dark blue boots made no sound as he stepped over flowers and wax from molten candles towards the memorial proper, bruising the occasional stray white petal. No one ever put candles or flowers on the memorial itself for fear of tarnishing its pristine stone; all offerings were left on the large expanse of grassland around it.

He paused in his step when he caught sight of the figure sitting on the stone dais of the memorial, leaning against its stone cross, absently smoking a cigarette in what appeared to be contemplative silence with his gaze on the clear night sky. He wondered if it would be appropriate to intrude upon the other man's seeming privacy, but in retrospect, he really didn't have a reason not to at least leave the flowers and candles.

"Bonsoir… Monsieur Badguy…" he greeted as he approached, not knowing how best to address the Commander, but figuring that he should probably be appropriately polite.

"You," was the only reply he received, and even that was an almost inaudible murmur around the stick of tobacco hanging limply from his lips.

It mystified Ky how it was possible for anyone to look so dishevelled without actually being unclean, even as he knelt to set his bouquet of casablancas down beside innumerable others on the grass near the memorial. The night breeze carried long brown strands in its gentle path. Tendrils of tobacco smoke rose in the same direction. He was dressed in the same outfit he remembered from that day about a week ago when they had first met, and the serenely wistful look on the other's face seemed somehow out of place. As he watched, the brunet reached for the previously unnoticed porcelain teacup next to him, absently cradling the small piece of china in his hand and running his thumb over the painted floral design.

"He liked teacups?" the blond asked quietly.

"Don't tell me you do," came the gruff response. Sol decided he really didn't need a bona fide Ky the Second around.

The younger man paused. "Quite, though I like tea sets, not specifically cups," he said at length.

The American couldn't decide if that was any better at all. "He collected them," he answered the other's initial question at last, and as he said the words, vindictively extinguished his cigarette on the inside edge of the delicate cup and dropped the butt in, leaving a trail of black ash to stain the shiny white porcelain. Hopefully, he was annoying the uptight brat even in death. Served him right for making the last eighteen years more of a living hell than it already was.

The action irked Ky somehow, but he maintained his silence. There was something familiar about the whole scenario, although he couldn't quite place it. He simply continued to gaze at the taller man as the other unscrewed the cap of a half-empty bottle of whisky and took a long swig of it before recapping the bottle and fishing the red and white pack of cigarettes out of his pocket to shake out another cancer stick.

"You know…" he began hesitantly. "I don't think he would have approved of you drinking, smoking and using teacups as ashtrays."

At that, the other's lips curled into an arrogant smirk. "I hope the boy's twisting down there." The brunet inclined his head to the stone slab he was sitting on as he lit his cigarette with his fire magic this time, muttering something Ky failed to catch.

"Pardon? Oh, and could you light these for me? I appear to have forgotten to bring something to light them with." He showed the American the three candles he had brought.

"I said... I hate the brat for stupidly dying and leaving me to take care of his lousy order," the other repeated. Ordinarily, Sol wouldn't have bothered repeating anything, but saying that again was just immensely satisfying. Maybe the kid would hear it from wherever he was, and hopefully get terribly irritated. His smirk widened at the thought of the late Commander getting all riled up in his typically uptight holier-than-thou manner somewhere out there. He glanced at the candles and contemplated refusing, but that would have been rather immature. So, he obliged with a flick of his wrist in their general direction. "Three's a lot for one person," he remarked casually, taking a long drag of his cigarette and exhaling a small cloud of smoke.

The blond laughed slightly at that, light-hearted and innocent, the laugh of one who had never seen the horrors that life mercifully hid from many, yet had cruelly revealed to some in their entirety. He remembered that laugh from a long time ago, but the one in his memories had an emptier ring to it, as if joy had been painted over a delicate frame concealing a deep-seated hollowness. He resented the way that boy had been able to laugh like that despite his bleak circumstances, even if he had been slowly breaking down inside underneath it all. He had seen the look in the kid's eyes after every battle, clear blue orbs clouded and glazed over with such sorrow, helplessness and desperation, blaming himself for not having done enough to prevent every single death. The boy was such an idealistic child; war was war; people died.

But humans needed hope, and that was what the kid had given them, maintaining the façade of strength and optimism over the pain and self-blame. He was precisely the sort of leader they needed, and the world had worshipped him as a saviour then pretty much the way they did today, but he wondered how many knew Ky Kiske as anything more than the heroic Commander of the Holy Order who fell in the Battle of Rome in the year 2173. Even his highest subordinates probably didn't know that he liked collecting teacups, let alone that he cried himself to sleep after high-casualty battles, a fact that Sol had chanced upon while walking past the boy's tent after one a particularly bloody land battle only to hear the young knight's choked sobs from within.

The other's reply brought him out of his reverie, although he didn't hear any of it. "Hm?" he asked vaguely.

"I said… They're not all for me. One's for my mother, and the last…" Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the blond pause thoughtfully as if he couldn't quite seem to recall whom the third candle was for. "The last… is for you…" he finished eventually.

Sol quirked an eyebrow and repressed a shudder at that. He most certainly didn't want or need any of the boy's blessings. He could hardly imagine the kinds of horrors St. Kiske would put him through. Anal-retentive "holiness", idealistic justice, mental linearity, and incessant nagging about the ills of smoking, drinking and blasphemy were a few that immediately came to mind. No, he'd definitely rather pass. He fairly regretted lighting the candles for the blond now. Not that he believed in any of that nonsense, but it was best not to give anything that horrific any reason to happen.

For Ky's part, he really didn't know why he had thought to bring a third candle for the boorish American, but for some mysterious reason, when he had grabbed that last one, it had been the unsociable Commander that had come to mind. He would perhaps have said it was for his father, had the man not been long dead and probably more blessed where he was than he could ever be here. But even if that had been a possibility, it would have been a lie to say so. He hadn't quite noticed before, but when he had tried to remember the person he had thought of as he took the third candle out of the box, the only face that had come to mind was that of the man sitting not too far away from him.

"Not that I don't think you have his blessings all the time anyway," he continued, glancing at the three candles he had placed over the molten remains of many others a little way away. "May I join you?" he asked, sitting down beside the older man without waiting for an answer. The Commander's infamous lack of sociability came to mind, and he wouldn't put it past Sol Badguy to actually say 'no.' Reaching into the plain brown paper carrier he had brought along, he fished out the paper box with the cheesecake slices, and was pleased to find that the man at the shop had thoughtfully included the necessary plastic forks when he opened it. "Happy birthday to me," he muttered under his breath. Turning to his companion, he held out a fork and the box. "Cheesecake?" he offered, not knowing why he had thought to buy two slices instead of one, seeing as he hadn't expected company, but feeling rather glad now for that moment of self-indulgence.

The American looked like he was about to refuse, but soon thought better of it. They ate in silence for a few moments before Ky suddenly said, "You don't hate him."

The only reaction he received was a puzzled look that seemed rather out of place on the arrogant visage. There was a presence about the man, he noted, watching the smooth ripple of wiry muscle under tanned skin as the other took another mouthful of cheesecake, a presence that felt like both a raging inferno and a gently burning flame at once and one that seemed somehow hauntingly familiar. It suddenly occurred to him that despite all appearances and having only been briefly acquainted, he knew that the Commander was someone he could trust. He might not make the most pleasant of company, but he wasn't a bad person, and his gruff grudging demeanour was one that Ky found exasperatingly likeable.

He leaned back against the stone cross, bending his knees a little more for comfort, to look up at the night sky. It was clear; no clouds obscured the almost perfectly round glowing white disc in the heavens or its many twinkling friends. "You don't hate him," he repeated, trying to make out the constellation he was seeing, but unsurprisingly found it a futile effort. It was impossible to tell from the few stars he could see. "If you did, you wouldn't even be here."

It was a rather long time before he received an answer. "I do. If he hadn't fucking insisted that I take over his stupid Order, the last eighteen years might have been infinitely more pleasant."

"You didn't have to agree," he pointed out calmly, putting the now empty cake box back into the bag with the forks and taking out the thermos flask of tea he had brought along.

"It was his bloody dying wish. What would you have done?" the older man retorted, voice gruff with irritation.

"That's hardly relevant to what you would have done. I doubt you're the kind that does things simply because they're expected of you." He inhaled the delicate scent of chamomile flowers from the open thermos, allowing himself a quiet sigh of contentment before sipping the steaming tea.

Sol scoffed derisively at that, but said nothing in response, and curtly tuned out the level of his brain that coolly informed him that had he believed in that sort of rubbish, the very idea that a certain anal retentive blond teacup collector might return to haunt him had he not complied was reason enough to put any thoughts of disobedience out of his mind.

Ky hid a slight smile, righteously silencing that little voice in his head that whispered to him how deliciously satisfying it was to be winning an argument against the brunet for a change. "Why are you here?" he pressed, taking another sip of tea.

The other contemplated not answering, but that would probably just give his annoyingly self-righteous companion the satisfaction and delight of thinking that he was right. Now where had he dealt with this particular attitude before? Oh, right. He remembered. "To annoy him to his face," he replied irritably, and just to elucidate his point, dropped the butt of the cigarette he had been smoking into the teacup as he took another long quaff of alcohol, before reaching for the slightly squashed pack in his pocket. Before he could shake yet another stick out, however, he found his hands suddenly grasping air.

"Stop that. It's bad for you," holding the pack of cancer sticks he had snatched away well out of the American's reach.

"Gimme that," the taller of the two grunted, reaching over to snatch his tobacco supply back.

Even the great Commander Kiske hadn't had the gall to physically stop him from smoking. Of course, that was probably because he had known full well that he wasn't going to succeed, since they had never met unarmed and doing so would have simply resulted in yet another victorious sword duel for the prototype Gear anyway. Dealing with a bloody civilian changed the dynamics of the situation quite a bit, seeing as murdering someone over a pack of cigarettes was just plain ridiculous, Sol had lived for over a century without resorting to such stupidity, and was therefore not about to start.

Ky quickly leaned away to hold the offending package even further out of reach. "No way. You really should quit," he insisted stubbornly.

The other merely leaned over to reach for his prized cigarettes, an action that, coupled with the blond's attempts to foil him, very soon resulted in his being sprawled over the other's more slender form, still trying to snatch his property back.

"Oof. Get off me," the younger man commanded with a laugh, still holding it out of reach.

Sol ignored that, instead clambering nearer to grab at the red and white package in the shorter man's outstretched hand. In response, Ky swiftly flung it as far away from him as possible, and it landed with a soft rustle somewhere among the numerous bouquets of flowers littering the grassy vicinity of the memorial. Seeing his chance, he quickly seized it, jumping up in the general direction of the throw.

"Oh, no, you don't," the blond muttered, and quickly leapt to stop the well-built brunet the only way that came to mind, using his full weight to pin the other to the ground in a well-aimed tackle that sent them both rolling over flowers, hardened candle-wax and grass. He grinned victoriously at the distinctly pissed off look on the grumpy American's face, brown hair a mess of white petals, green blades of grass and wax particles. He had the distinct feeling his hair was probably in the same condition, but he wasn't in any mood to care. It was high time they evened the scales, even if he didn't remember when any scales had materialized to be evened.

"Damn you."

The look of resigned annoyance looked so strange on the other's face; he couldn't repress a chuckle. "I think He'd do that to you first," he riposted evenly, shifting into a kneeling position on the grass beside the brunet.

"He already has."

"No, He hasn't. You just need to repent, and ask to be forgiven."

Sol mentally groaned. Not another one of those. Just when he thought he'd never have to hear this bullshit again. "He forsook me long ago, boy, and you wouldn't understand."

"The Heavenly Father won't forsake anyone who repents their sins and asks to be saved. And don't call me that." The word 'boy' irked Ky; it was as if the other saw him as nothing more than a child, oft to be humoured, never to be taken seriously, someone distinctly insignificant.

"Gah. I want nothing to do with that—" A hand clamped over his mouth rudely interrupted him.

"Don't blaspheme," the blond ordered gravely. The other's lips were surprisingly soft beneath his fingers and the tanned chin rough with stubble. He suddenly wanted to trace the firmly set jaw line with his fingertips, and quickly pushed the insane notion far from his mind.

Stronger fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled his right hand away. "Ch'," the other scoffed. "If his God were real, the boy would still be here." He could hear the trace of bitterness in the older man's deep, somewhat raspy voice, and he gazed silently at that impassive face.

It was then that he noticed that the other man's eyes were mismatched, one red and the other an almost golden shade. It was strange, but he didn't ask. Somehow he thought asking was a bad idea. Not only was Sol unlikely to tell, but he was also reluctant to ask for information he doubted he truly wanted to hear. He also couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen them somewhere before. Now that long brown bangs were no longer covering it, he could clearly see the words 'Rock You' carved into the bulky red metallic headgear the other always wore. The lyrics of the old Queen song, We Will Rock You, immediately came to mind, and he just knew for some reason that that was indeed where the phrase had come from. He couldn't explain it, this feeling of knowing the man lying on the grass beside him and wanting to know him better at the same time. Azure eyes caught the mildly wistful look in their mismatched counterparts as Ky waited expectantly for some continuation to their owner's previous statement.

When no further words were forthcoming, he finally said, "That's flawed logic. People die in war. That's why it's called war. It has no bearing whatsoever on the existence of God or the lack thereof."

"Hn. Now that's one thing the boy never got through his thick skull," the other muttered, eyes obviously on the memorial's stone cross.

Ky paused thoughtfully. "Actually, I think he did… It's just that… I suppose in his position as a leader and all, you can't help feeling responsible for the decisions you make. It always feels like you could have changed something to create a better outcome. Especially when it concerns the lives of people, very real people whom you fight alongside with everyday, people with families and friends who will mourn their passing, you just can't help going through the long list of 'if I had only known's every time you see the results of your choices. You'll always wish you could have done something differently, so that maybe, just maybe, they would still be alive." Somehow, the thought filled him with a deep sorrow, as if having opened a vacuum in his heart that had never been there before. "Don't you ever feel that way? Like… start thinking about how things would be different if you had done some things another way or not done them at all? Or maybe how some people would still be alive if you had only reached the—"

"Shut up," came the carefully blank interjection. He had no idea how close he was to the truth, and Sol didn't want to think about that.

The younger man blinked. It looked like he had hit a sore nerve there. "Ah… I'm sorry," he apologised quietly. "I didn't mea— Aaarhh!" His sharp, piercing cry of pain resounded through the silent garden as it cut off whatever he had been saying. He fisted his left hand in his beige pullover over the right side of his chest even as the other flatly asked if he needed a hospital, muttering something about the impossibility of a heart attack in someone his age. He shook his head, biting his bottom lip as another burst of white hot pain seared through his chest. Feeling the strength leave his body, he collapsed, weakly resting his head on the other's chest. He tilted his head up slightly to offer the American a faint smile. "It's alright… just an old problem… It'll pass…" he whispered reassuringly. "Just need… a little rest…"

Ky's face flushed as it occurred to him what they looked like just lying here in this position, but he didn't have the energy to move anymore. The pain made even breathing laborious, what more movement. And all of a sudden, he realized that he didn't want to move. It seemed somehow right to just lie here, listening to the steady sound of the other's heartbeat, breathing in that unique and familiar scent. It filled his body with a fiery warmth, and out of the blue, he found himself wanting it to last forever. His face heated up further at the direction he recognized his thoughts going in. The fact that the brunet couldn't see his face in this position only mollified him slightly. It was wrong to think such things. Yet he couldn't help but think he wanted to stay. As he slowly closed his eyes to the mutual silence, he suddenly noticed that the American had never released his right hand from when he had wrenched it from his lips. The thought brought a smile to his face.

* * *

So, make me happy and review? I'm really nervous about this fic… Lolz… New fandom jitters and all, you know? Please tell me what you thought, and just what I can do to make this fic better. Click that review button or e-mail me at shinigami . yumi gmail . com (minus the spaces). And FF . net always screws my formatting over irreparably. I hope it didn't turn out too bad. 

**Much thanks to:**

Ishiwatari Daisuke (for a nice game with nice slashable characters)

Meinarch (my lovely beta-er and muse)

All the readers (and if you review, you get extra love and possible faster updates)


	2. A Moment's Kindness

**Disclaimer:**Uh, refer to disclaimer in previous chapter.

**Shinigami Yumi**

presents

**If Your God Were Real**

_Sometimes destiny is what you make it_

_Sometimes people just can't fight it_

_Someone somewhere is always listening_

_So always be wary of what you're saying_

Chapter 2: A Moment's Kindness

Swords clashed loudly, emitting showers of red and blue sparks, and the following impact of opposing magical energy sent him and his opponent flying backwards. He sent a Stun Edge at the other man in mid-air, which was easily avoided with a well-timed jump. Boot-shod feet skidded on the sandy ground of the clearing they were duelling in before he dashed forward again. As usual, Sol was obviously not fighting seriously; the disinterested look on his face said it all. The brunet only evaded or parried his attacks with whatever force was necessary and nothing more. It irritated him that the man could be this rude without even trying. Even if victory was certain, he could at least look like he was making an effort; that was the polite thing to do. But no, the American looked plainly bored; he found it downright insulting.

"Needle Spike!" he shouted as he spun forward to slash at the taller man more ferociously than absolutely necessary in his anger, and resented the way the corners of the other's mouth curved up almost imperceptibly into a ghost of his trademark smirk. The instant his feet touched the ground again, he was sliding forward in the Stun Dipper.

"I think this has just taken up about enough time today," he heard Sol murmur as the older man dodged his attack with a lazy leap and somersault to land behind him.

_That cocksure, impudent, uncouth, Godless lout…_he thought, flipping into a Crescent Slash immediately.

Metal scraped loudly against metal, and more red and blue sparks flew from the violent friction as the Fuuraiken grated against his opponent's parrying sword. Seeing the trap instantly, he spun mid-flip to knock Sol's heavier sword to the ground with the blade of his own. Except that he didn't expect the brunet to simply let the sword fall. He had a moment to realize his mistake before the other's flaming fist plunged into his stomach. "Volcanic Viper!" Blackness pleasantly enveloped him.

He found himself blinking up at the sunny blue sky through the dense wispy leaves of the willow he was resting under. The breeze was pleasantly cool and gentle on his skin, and he slid his eyes shut as he sipped at a lukewarm cup of chamomile tea that would soon be downright cold, listening to the relaxing rustle of the grass and leaves around him. Just as he was about to doze off, a somewhat familiar voice called to him.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Kiske," a young lady with thick and wavy shoulder-length hair somewhere between copper and scarlet greeted warmly as she approached, a basket in her hand. Despite her purely European descent, she had the double eyelids and even skin tone characteristic of an Asian heritage, a fact he remembered often puzzling over. He thought he knew her name… Yes, Arianne Thallassa, better known as the Water Witch, was only three years his senior and one of the highest-ranking officers in the Holy Order, not to mention one of the minute number of women. To maximize the advantage of her powers, she often led the coastline and island patrols.

"Bonjour, Madame Thallassa," he responded with a smile as he straightened slightly, wincing internally at the soreness in his abdominal muscles at the movement. Sol had done far greater damage to Gears with the same attack and level of ease. He could imagine how infinitesimal a fraction of his full power he had put into that final blow.

"Oh, please, Sir. Etiquette or no, 'Madame' makes me feel so old!" Arianne chastised mildly with a laugh. The sunlight danced on the coppery gold of her tanned skin, highlighting her high cheekbones, as the breeze played with her tresses. "Had another fight with Monsieur Badguy?" she guessed, the wink to sparkling teal eyes visible although she stood towering over his sitting form at her full 5'9".

"Eh?" was the best response he could muster. How did she…

She chortled even more at his reaction, dropping to one knee before him. "You only ever get that look on your face when you've lost another fight to him, Sir. It's a renowned fact throughout the Order," the water magic master explained, smoothing out the few creases in her sea green and white Order uniform, which had been cut somewhat more fitting than the standard issue ones the men wore.

He turned away, blushing slightly, embarrassed at how infamous his rivalry with the boorish American had grown. He never seemed to make an effort whenever they fought, yet he always won so easily. It was simply infuriating.

"Well, if he wasn't strong, what would be the point in having him as a rival at all?"

He merely blinked at the response, not realizing that he had complained aloud.

"But, tell me, Sir, why is it so important that you defeat him in a duel?" her mellow alto smoothly formed the question.

"Respect," he answered automatically. "I'm the Commander. I should—"

"No," she interjected. "With all due respect, Sir, that's irrelevant."

"It is?"

"The men wouldn't think any more or less of you," she reasoned. Showing him the contents of the basket, she offered, "Cheese tart?"

He nodded and helped himself to one, munching in silence as he gave her query the consideration it deserved.

"It's personal, isn't it?" she hazarded after a while, a smile curving full red lips as she tapped a finger to the rim of his teacup playfully.

He paused, before inclining his head slightly. "It infuriates me that the Godless likes of him can just waltz into our Holy Order and treat all the noble and God-fearing Sacred Knights here like lower life forms. That man is blasphemy on legs," he grumbled grudgingly. "And I hate that I can't beat him to prove that we're better than he is."

Arianne rose to her feet, thoughtfully glancing at her watch. "Or maybe he's the only person around here who doesn't simply respect your position, and you want him to acknowledge you for more than just a title," she murmured. "Well, I must be returning to the airship now, Sir," she said, louder and clearer. "Bonne journée!" she called, turning and hurrying off before he could reply. (Bonne journée - Have a nice day)

He watched her loping off towards the airship landing zone contemplatively. Lost in thought, he sipped absently at his forgotten cup of tea. It was steaming.

* * *

The pale rays of the morning sun were filtering in through the gap between the light blue curtains over the window behind him when Ky sat up slowly in bed, white linen sheets around his waist. He gazed thoughtfully at his right hand where it rested on his lap; he could still feel the hilt of the Fuuraiken in his grip. The dream had been so vivid, a dream about his namesake, Commander Kiske's time in the Holy Order with a certain fire magic master. They sure hadn't appeared to be on the best of terms. 

The sleeve of his pastel blue satin pyjama shirt slid back on the pale skin of his arm as he turned and reached out to widen the gap between the curtains, holding one curtain aside as he looked out on the gray buildings around his apartment block. There were a fair number of edifices in other colours, mostly red and white, but the majority of them were gray. Paris was such a colourful and lovely city. It was a shame that this part of town had so much gray in it, but it was a nice place to live, peaceful and quiet as it was.

Absently, he found himself wondering if he would see that man again. He had awoken just before dawn to find himself with his head still resting on the other's chest and the brunet having apparently dozed off as well, the Fuuenken giving off slight emissions of heat beside him. The blond hadn't been certain of how the sword had ended up beside its wielder, since he vaguely recalled the older man leaving it on the memorial in favour of seeking out his pack of cigarettes. Mismatched eyes had immediately flown open as he sat up, a telltale sign that the Commander was so accustomed to being attacked without warning that he could no longer sleep soundly.

"_I should go back," _he had begun in a rather reluctant whisper as he climbed carefully to his feet_. "Thank you for…for staying with me."_

Muscular shoulders had rolled in a fluid shrug._ "I was planning to spend the night here."_

He hadn't known what to say to that, so he had quietly gathered his things and said a polite goodbye before leaving. Perhaps they would meet again. He hoped it would be soon. He gazed up thoughtfully at the clear blue morning sky. "Sol…" he whispered.

"Oh. So it's not Commander or Monsieur anymore?" As if on cue, a raspy bass startled him out his reminisces.

He whirled around to find said fire magic master leaning obnoxiously against the wooden doorframe between his bedroom and the living area, both hands balancing his sword on the wooden floorboards and still dressed in the same outfit he had worn the previous day, with an arrogant smirk on his face. _That smirk he wore when he knew he was in control,_ Ky thought absently. His shock was quickly replaced with irritation. "You… Do you make a habit of breaking and entering?" he demanded with a frown, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"Nice couch," the brunet remarked, ignoring the question, which only served to further aggravate the blond.

Ky squeezed his eyes shut slowly in an effort to reign in his temper. He was distinctly convinced that it would have given the other immense satisfaction had he really blown up, and he certainly wasn't about to do so. Thus, he forced himself to calm down with deep breaths, not wanting to make any mistakes with the American. He was far calmer when azure eyes opened to rest on the taller man's well-built form, even calm enough to smile slightly at the previous comment. "You only think so because you haven't tried my bed," he replied.

Back when he had bought the furniture for this studio apartment, comfort had been his top priority. None of the furnishings had actually been expensive, but the chairs were all comfortable enough to sleep in, or at least sit in for long hours without any discomfort. He was rather pleased with his new home.

_His self control is pretty good,_ Sol thought with a smirk, sauntering over to the blond.

The younger man's eyes widened sharply in alarm as he climbed onto the queen-sized bed, leaning back to put some distance between them as he clambered towards the other, an amused smirk on his face. It soon resulted in him crouching over the willowy blond with one knee between slender legs and hands on either side of slim shoulders, the other now lying flat on the bed once again. It struck him then how very blue the other's eyes were, and how very much they reminded him of azure orbs he had often looked challengingly into some years before, only these aquamarines had none of the weariness he remembered in the depths of their counterparts.

"W-Wh-What are you DOING!" the other nearly shrieked the question as he tried to scoot further back, stuttering in his utter shock and panic, distracting him from his reverie.

He offered the boy a feral grin. "Trying out your bed," he responded, rolling over to lie beside the blond and noting the flustered blush to pale cheeks with much amusement. "What did you think I was doing?" he teased. _He's proving to be almost as entertaining as his namesake._

Ky immediately slid off the bed at that, trying to calm his pounding heart. He knew he was blushing, and the room suddenly felt very warm. _What on earth was that for? It's like he's trying to provoke me on purpose…_ he thought, still very flustered. He remembered the seemingly predatory glint to mismatched eyes and the dark feeling to that fiery aura as the other had crawled towards him on the bed, and repressed a shudder as he made his way towards the wooden cabinet beside the door. Having calmed down sufficiently to trust his voice to speak without a panicked quiver, he finally offered, "Well, since you're here, I don't suppose you'd like to join me for breakfast?"

He opened the cabinet to gaze at his reflection on the inside of the door. Thankfully, the blush, at least, had receded. He turned around as the brunet sat up in his bed with a wider smirk than the last. "What do you think I'm here for? Since you decided to rid me of my nicotine supply some hours back, you're paying for breakfast so I can buy another pack with the cash instead," the other replied, a look of annoying self-satisfaction on his face.

Ky was suddenly overcome by the puzzling urge to electrocute the living daylights out of the boorish American, but simply turned back to his wardrobe. "I'll get changed," he muttered, voice slightly more clipped than usual.

He unbuttoned his satin pyjama top and hesitantly removed it, letting it fall carelessly to the floor for the moment. He could feel the other's eyes on him, and it was making him terribly uncomfortable. Just as he turned to grab one of his white button-downs, he had to silence a gasp as he felt slightly callused fingers trace a line down his right shoulder. Hearing his heartbeat sped up at the sudden closeness, he swallowed thickly, praying fervently that the other couldn't sense his discomfiture. He silently berated himself for reacting like some infatuated schoolgirl as he reached for the shirt; it was totally irrational.

"Where did you get this?" the other asked gruffly, more out of curiosity than concern, as he continued to trace the only mar to flawless porcelain skin with his fingertips, a long scar that extended a full six inches straight down from the shoulder. The slightly taller man's expression reflected in the mirror was unreadable.

"Back in Corsica," he answered quietly, not presently trusting his voice to speak above a whisper. "There was a minor Gear attack near my high school. As I was running past, a large overhead signboard fell. It just missed me, but the edge of one metal beam gave me that long gash there. I remember it needed a lot of stitches."

He slid his eyes shut at the memory as the light caress trailed down his collarbone and up his slender throat to his jaw line. The thought that the stronger American could easily snap his neck in two right there and then struck his mind unbidden, but he relaxed into the touch, somehow knowing for sure that the older man would not hurt him despite the inherent violence he could sense in the other. And there it was again, that overwhelming feeling of déjà vu, that strange desire to lean back against the other man, that mysterious longing to be closer to the American and to know him better. It was probably because of that dream he'd had earlier.

Those fingertips, slightly roughened from years of fighting with a sword, ghosted lightly across his lips, and then abruptly, they were gone. He opened his eyes to see the Commander walking out the door to the living area, apparently lost in thought. Left blinking at the forgotten shirt in his hand, it was a moment before he resumed changing his clothes, shoving the sudden inexplicable sense of loss to the back of his mind.

* * *

"Ride the Lightning!" 

Orbs of lightning encased him in a bubble as he sped through several large Gears, propelled by his magic. The hulking masses toppled to the ground behind him and he leapt out of the way of another Gear's spiked tail, sending a Stun Edge at the offending creature before darting over to hack off its enormous head while it was still reeling from the electric jolt.

"Fafnir!"

Some distance behind him, a magically bolstered fiery punch sent a massive Gear toppling into its friends. A crooked smile curved his lips. He never expected there to ever be a day when he would be happy to have that man close by, but he was relieved for the presence of a powerful ally on the battlefield. He violently slashed two nearby Gears in half before performing a Stun Dipper to chop the legs out from under another larger one. That's when he suddenly spied a medium-sized Gear sneaking up on a certain boorish American out of the corner of his eye.

_Oh no… It's just out of _reach, he thought somewhat angrily. As much as he disliked the man, he wasn't going to let any of his subordinates be killed if he could help it. The Gear he had felled crashed to the ground with a resounding thud as he spun to face the smaller offending monster, reaching into himself for the extra burst of magical energy he would need. "Sacred Edge!" He threw a large spearhead-shaped bolt of lightning at the creature, and it fell to the ground immediately, dead.

The older man whirled around at the sound, his heavy sword slicing through several more Gears as he did so. Mismatched red and gold eyes met azure ones for the briefest moment before he involuntarily screamed in pain as his knees buckled under the massive weight of a Gear's hook-like claw settling into his right shoulder. Before he could even move, a fiery projectile sped along the ground and into it.

"Grand Viper!"

Another cry of pain escaped his lips when the claw dragged into his flesh as his assailant fell. He felt blood soaking his uniform; it was a huge gash, and the pain was excruciating. In an instant, Sol was beside him, pulling him up by his left arm. He steeled himself and obliged the other, moving to lean against the brunet's muscular back slightly for a moment's respite. He squeezed blue eyes shut fleetingly to clear his vision and opened them, panting. They were alone with their back to each other amidst oncoming Gears from all directions.

"Watch your own back, boy."

"A little gratitude goes a long way," he riposted, lifting his left hand to the Fuuraiken as he prepared to continue fighting.

"Geh," the other scoffed from behind him. "That'd be like asking you to mind your own damn business for a change."

He darted forward swiftly to cut down three of the nearest Gears in quick succession before backing into Sol again as several more of the enemy fell, neither needing to turn to check who they had bumped into; each recognized the other's aura well from innumerable battles with and against each other. Leaning against the other's back as he staggered slightly from the pain of moving his right arm, he realized bitterly that he wouldn't last long. He could feel the blood oozing out of the large gash on his shoulder; even if the Gears didn't manage to kill him, the blood loss would.

"We need to flee. There's too many," the slightly raspy bass said from behind him.

He nodded once before realizing that the other couldn't see him. "Oui. I pray the rest make it out as well." Their patrol had been ambushed unexpectedly by a large Gear force, and they had been severely outnumbered. It had been a fighting retreat from the start, not to mention a losing battle. Loathe as he was to admit it, he wasn't expecting many survivors.

"Why do you think so many are here?"

The implications of the older man's words sunk into him as he rushed forward again, and he hacked down several more Gears with more ferocity than was strictly necessary as the mix of pain, hatred and remorse welled up in him again. There was no the rest; all the other knights were dead. They should have been better prepared. He should have brought a larger team. He should have brought airships as well as land forces on this patrol.

The brunet's words sliced through his self-blaming thoughts when they had their backs against each other again. "The jungle on your right."

He could feel himself tiring as he glanced in the direction of the trees. The blood loss was starting to get to him. "It won't stop them."

"No, but it'll slow the larger ones down. To catch us they'll have to get through the trees, and not many of them are small enough to run through the forest without destroying a significant amount of foliage to clear a wide enough path. It's our best bet."

"And with God's help, they'll soon give up," he agreed. It was as good a plan as any now.

"Now." He felt the American turn in the direction of the forest and promptly followed suit, running head-on towards the Gears blocking their escape route. "Tyrant Rave!"

He tore after the fire magic master as the massive spiral of fire cleared the way for them, using some of his remaining magic to boost his speed. They had managed to clear the wall of Gears, and the cover of woodland wasn't far. He reached the edge of the woods, only to notice that the brunet wasn't beside him. He turned to find the man quite a distance away, cutting down some of their swifter pursuers. As he watched, the other did a Flame Dipper on one of the larger Gears before executing a perfect Bandit Revolver at another huge one as he chopped of the first's head, all with an amazing grace.

When the other didn't turn to run as the two enormous monsters fell into more of their lumbering friends, he shook his head slowly in denial, taking a step back. No, surely the older man wasn't planning to stall them single-handedly while letting him escape. The idea was just preposterous. Firstly, he wasn't about to let ANYONE die for him, not even someone he disliked that intensely. Secondly, the notion that Sol Badguy would die for ANYONE, particularly him, was just mental. It was absurd. No, the brunet was probably trying to kill as many as he could before escaping to ensure higher odds of their survival.

Reaching into himself and the Fuuraiken for the magic to help the American, he shaped as much lightning magic as he could muster into a massive projectile. This was probably the last attack he was ever going to get off today, so he hoped it would take down a substantial number of the abominations. Aiming right where the mass of Gears were beginning to converge on his rival, he hurled the strike at them.

"RISING FORCE!" He sagged against the nearest tree. "SOL!" he managed to shout the warning.

Surprisingly, the other heard him above the noise of battle –or perhaps just felt the presence of the powerful attack coming from behind–, and leapt out of the way while throwing a Volcanic Viper at medium-sized Gear. His Rising Force had just hit its intended target as Sol whirled around and sped towards him. Was he imagining that the other's mismatched eyes were now both red? But he didn't get a chance to ponder the thought for the older man wordlessly hefted him up by the waist, and dashed into the depths of the jungle.

He would have protested the indignity of it all, but he was presently too weak to do much besides concentrating on not dropping the Fuuraiken as the other bounded over roots and branches, darting between the trees. Much to his relief, the monstrosities didn't appear to be following them. He felt weak and cold; it was getting hard to maintain his hold on the sword, so he moved it to his left hand. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the American put him down and hacked at a mass of dense undergrowth before pushing him through the resulting gap and crawling in after him.

They were in a small clearing deep in the heart of the gloomy forest, and he had no idea where they were relative to civilization. The leaves above him kept out most of the already waning sunlight, and it was also misty. He sighed in mixed resignation and relief, somewhat reluctantly allowing his companion to help him over to a tall tree. He sank to the ground wearily, leaning against the thick trunk. He couldn't feel his right upper arm anymore, and the numbness was slowly spreading from his shoulder down his back and to his neck.

"Take your shirt off."

He blinked dumbly up at his rival at the sharp command, his mind gone completely blank.

"Let me see that."

_That… Oh, the wound._ It finally clicked in his mind, and he hesitantly obliged. He only got as far as removing his Order cloak with his left hand when the other lost patience, and reached for the buckle and zipper on his shirt. In an instant, the bloodied shirt had joined the cloak a small distance away, and the brunet was closely inspecting the long gash on his shoulder, too closely, in fact, for his comfort. He blushed, but didn't move. The taller man was practically straddling his lap as he looked the cut, which appeared to have stopped bleeding, over.

The other sniffed at the injury slightly, then swore. "Fuck. It's poisoned."

He winced at the other's tone and word choice. He hated it when people swore. A warm hand came to rest firmly on the side of his neck and another was pressed to his lower back. It crossed his mind that the stronger man could very well snap his neck right then in his defenceless state, but he didn't have the time to process the thought when everything crashed into blinding pain and he let out a piercing scream as the hands moved sharply towards the wound and blood sprayed forth from it. One hand then moved to hold his right arm straight out by the wrist, while the other grasped said arm tightly just above the elbow and shoved upwards. More blood spurted from the wound and he cried out in pain again, sagging forward to bury his face in the American's right shoulder.

Suddenly, he stiffened. Surprisingly soft lips pressed to the bleeding lesion and sucked gently several times before the other spat violently. Sol could have let him die, could kill him right then, but he knew the taller man would do no such thing, had done nothing of the sort. From somewhere deep inside, a latent sense of trust that he realized had always been there bubbled to the surface as fingers carded through several blond strands. Where he had been cold before, his body suddenly felt very hot, and the heat seemed to be travelling downwards… oh, he quickly shoved the very possibility out of his mind.

"I've removed most of the poison. Your natural magic should be able to neutralize the traces," came the quiet announcement.

"Why do you care?" he whispered hoarsely, still leaning against the other feebly. He couldn't help asking; he failed to see a reason for Sol to go to all that trouble for him.

"You think I want to hear about how I left their precious boy saviour to die for the rest of my life?" The older man's voice was condescending as usual, but he couldn't find the loathing he had for the other's insolence in him.

Thus, he said nothing and kept his head resting on the lean shoulder as the brunet methodically ripped two long strips of cloth off the hem of his uniform cloak and carefully tied them together before tying them over the wound and around his chest as a makeshift bandage.

"Where's the nearest Order base?"

He blinked at the enquiry, and sat up slightly, thinking hard. "The one we set out from," he replied as if it were obvious, which it was.

"We can't go back that way."

"Where are we?"

"About 15 miles north of where we were ambushed."

He thought long and hard. Finally, he remembered. "There's a small base about 20 miles northwest, I think… It's near a lake." He returned to resting his head on the other's shoulder, sliding his eyes shut and inhaling the older man's distinctly male scent. "I can't believe I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere with you, of all people."

"Would you prefer it were someone else?" Sol asked gruffly, barely above a whisper.

He paused, giving the question the consideration it deserved. At length, he shook his head slightly. "No," he answered honestly at the same volume. Had it not been for this man, he would most likely already be dead. There was no one else he'd rather have by his side, save Master Kliff himself, and that man had already retired. With effort, he leaned back against the tree trunk and reached up, cleaning off a few specks of his blood on the other's face with his fingertips. He touched bloodstained lips gently, and his hand dropped to his side wearily with most of the blood.

"You know I won't thank you for it, boy," his rival muttered darkly, grudgingly, face barely more than an inch away from his and wearing an unreadable expression.

He offered the man a weak smile, slightly dazed from blood loss, meeting that mismatched gaze calmly. "Je sais," he whispered, then quickly switched back to English when he realized that he had lapsed into French again. "But you've already repaid me… and more…" he continued softly, feeling his throat start to constrict slightly, but fighting to get the words out anyway. "Thank you." (Je sais - I know)

His chest felt heavy; there was so much emotion welling up inside him, all the feelings that rushed into him after such battles and more. He could imagine the dead bodies, some crushed brutally, scattered all over the grassy expanse of the valley they had been fighting in. If only he had known, he might have been able to do something. No, in truth, he had been careless; he could have saved some of them. He could have. The usual sorrow, regret, self-blame and agony was all there, threatening to explode from his chest in a tidal wave of feeling, but there was also something more, something pulsing and overflowing that was begging to be set free.

He didn't realize he had inclined his head forward until his lips brushed against equally soft parted ones. In stunned disbelief, he leaned back, only to find their lips still pressed lightly together. He opened his mouth to protest, to say that they shouldn't be doing such things because they were wrong, but that was when the other traced his lower lip with his tongue briefly before deepening the kiss to explore the recesses of his mouth languidly, and he found himself tilting his head back, unable to resist. There was something indescribable… something in the contact that the other offered, something he couldn't fight, something he needed… and he couldn't help but cling to it desperately.

"G-God forgive me," he whispered breathlessly, not only from the kiss but also from the myriad of suffocating emotions swirling painfully in his chest, wrapping his arms as tightly around the muscular form as he could without causing either of them any pain as the brunet's kisses trailed down his throat and slightly callused fingertips brushed against the golden crucifix around his neck before moving to tease his exposed nipples.

He moaned weakly as he felt his body respond. It was so wrong, but… but he couldn't fight it… couldn't fight something he wanted, needed so urgently. Sol eased him all the way down to the damp grassy ground before a warm weight settled over and blanketed his more slender form. Moist lips closed over the perked nub, and he let out a soft wanton cry, writhing slightly as the throbbing in his nether regions grew more intense. Praying for forgiveness for being too powerless to resist the temptation before him, he brought the familiar face up for another needy kiss, trying to erase the image of fallen comrades littering the valley landscape from his mind. His breathing would have grown ragged were it not that way already.

Fingers brushed against his heated flesh, seeking the fastenings on his pants, and he arched into the contact involuntarily, his quiet moans a fervent plea for more as kisses peppered his skin. Those warm wet lips ghosted over his body, trailing down his willowy form seeking extra-sensitive areas and working them as they were discovered. Then cool humid air met sensitized skin as his rigid member was freed, and he gasped, cheeks flushing slightly at the realization that he had never done anything like this before; Sol Badguy was going to be the first to see his entire body, to have him. He had a brief moment to wonder if the other liked what he saw, only to have a burning hand wrap around his arousal gently and stroke, eliciting a cry of pleasure as the sensation brought all his thoughts to a screeching halt.

"Nngh…" he groaned, fingers seeking purchase and digging into the other's shoulders in a way that might have been painful as wet kisses were pressed where he most desired them, tracing the main artery of his almost painfully throbbing length. "Nnghh… aah!" He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and writhed with want as he was taken into the other's mouth, hips jerking and knees bending as his legs spread wider reflexively.

The damp tufts of grass chafing his skin were a muted sensation in the back of his mind. There was suction and teeth scraping sensitive skin as the American's tongue swirled erotically around his heated shaft. He moaned, patently begging for release; he was close. It was a new sensation for him, but the rising anticipation that resonated throughout his entire being was unmistakable. Firm hands held him still to keep his hips from bucking uncontrollably as roughened fingertips reached under him, seeking out more intimate ground. Then he was roughly caressed somewhere delicious, and the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of colours before anything could register…

Ky lurched up in bed, lips parted in a silent scream; another bout of chest pain piercing through the ephemeral haze of pleasure from a moment ago. He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking slightly as he rode out the recurrent agony and burying his face in his knees. His cobalt blue linen pyjama pants were a mess. One hand reached up to run through damp blond strands. Mortification mingled with trepidation and uncertainty in him. The idea of him having a wet dream about the two Commanders was disturbing in the worst way.

The glowing red numbers of the digital clock on his bedside table politely and silently informed him that it was four minutes to six in the morning. The sky wouldn't lighten for nearly another hour, and the light from the crescent moon in the sky shone down upon him in an ethereal glow. He climbed out of bed in a languid motion, the lingering echoes of bliss from his dream still thick in his blood, slowly making his way over to the adjoining bathroom. He needed a shower. Badly. Discarding his soiled and sweaty pyjamas into the laundry hamper by the bathroom door, he entered the shower area immediately.

Sighing softly as the warm water rained down on him, he thanked God for the wisdom to lock his bedroom door. It wasn't that he was expecting anyone, but after that day when a certain American had simply entered his apartment unannounced, he wasn't taking any chances. The last thing he needed to deal with right now was having the older man barge in on him just as he was dreaming about such things. In truth, the dream terrified him with its implications. People said the things you dream about tended to be the things you really wanted. Did he really want…? No, he shook his head violently in the shower to clear the thoughts that were beginning to form. It was sinful to lust after a member of your own gender.

But, even so, he couldn't help but wonder. If he really wanted the Commander that way, why was he dreaming about the man with his namesake instead? And were they really just dreams, or something more? There was the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that insisted that the events in his many visions had truly happened once. Did that mean that the two Commanders had indeed been lovers? How much of the dreams were fact, and how much just fantasy? If the things he saw had indeed happened, then why was he dreaming about them? How did he know all these things? He rinsed the soap off his skin, trying not to think about how a pair of slightly callused hands had felt on his body, and sunk down to the cool tiled floor of the shower area. It was all so confusing.

* * *

It had been more than a fortnight since the day he'd had breakfast with a certain blond boy. The breeze was cool where he sat under the shady boughs of a large oak by the river Seine, leaning against the trunk with a cigarette hanging limply from his lips. The faint tendrils of smoke rose slowly into the air the way thoughts and memories rose in his mind, in random circles but a certain direction nonetheless. 

He remembered that scar. The late knight had had one exactly the same, and he recalled the wound that had caused it with startling clarity. It had been a slash from a poisoned Gear claw during an ambush, and he'd had to force the poison out of the boy's bloodstream. The injury had left the late Commander weak for days from both the lingering poison traces and the resulting blood loss. He'd had to carry the kid most of the way back to the Order's nearest base. He also recalled the boy kissing him out of the blue while resting in the forest they had escaped through before mumbling profuse apologies about being in a daze and not knowing what had come over him.

Carelessly tossing the cigarette butt aside, he shook out another stick from the pack in his pocket and lit it with a casual wave of his hand. It was hard not to notice the many similarities and coincidences. The boy had been born in Venice a day after his namesake had been killed and moved to Corsica to grow up practically French despite his true nationality. One could even ignore the stroke of providence that caused his mother to give him his name, but the boy's personality and appearance was also closer to that of the late knight's than should genetically be possible.

Moreover, there was the inherent magic ability, which was a rather rare trait in humans. In fact, the blond's present magic pool appeared to be greater than his predecessor's and with a clearly different manifestation. Furthermore, the twist of fate that resulted in them both arriving in Paris within hours of each other may have been purely coincidental, but the meetings at the Gear attack and the memorial probably weren't. Then again, the concept of reincarnation was bullshit. Even the late Commander hadn't believed in it. Of course, there was also the possibility that Someone Up There had deliberately done it just to spite him. After all the shit He'd put him through, he really wouldn't put it past Him.

Absently, he wondered where everyone had gotten the notion that he and Ky Kiske had disliked each other at first sight. That was patently untrue. Any dislike that might have taken root the instant they had met had been entirely on the Frenchman's part. He hadn't had anything against the boy personally; the blond had had quite a pleasant demeanour at the beginning, and he had much better things to do with his time and resources than to go around disliking people for no apparent reason. He simply didn't approve of having a child, however talented, as the Commander of the Holy Order. His dislike for the kid had only begun when the other had chosen to prove his appraisal of immaturity absolutely right by taking his disapproval personally and making a royal nuisance of himself at every opportunity.

He had even taken the one-sided rivalry and constant duelling in good humour. The late knight had been a powerful and skilled fighter for a human and non-Japanese, albeit quite far from ever being his equal, and the duels were always entertaining, particularly the way in which his opponent would get so worked up over his apparently effortless victory. That, and deliberately riling the young Commander up to test the limits of the boy's self-control, had been rather enjoyable pastimes when there was a lull in the fighting and simply nothing more engaging to do. Then the kid had started nagging at him like the grandmother he'd never had about how just about everything was bad for him and trying to convert him into a devout and puritanical Roman Catholic, and that was where amusement had quickly turned into annoyance.

"Commander Sol Badguy," a calm greeting interrupted his reverie.

He didn't even turn to the woman bowing politely to him before answering. "You're the Commander now."

Arianne Thallassa straightened. "Acting Commander, Sir," she corrected smoothly with a slight smile, tucking a stray lock of her wavy reddish-copper hair behind her left ear. "Your position is still official; we just declared you M.I.A. You are still my superior." She paused for a moment before continuing. "Fancy seeing you here, Sir."

The American slid a look over at her but didn't dignify the statement with a reply. The half-Spanish lady looked exactly as he remembered her, almost a full decade younger than her years, and he suspected that she might have learnt to use some of her magic energy to preserve her youth. Rather than the open-ended gloves the late blond had favoured, she wore a pair of identical heavy platinum wrist-cuffs partially hidden by the long sleeves of her sea green and white Order uniform that he didn't remember seeing the last time they had met. The large blue jewel that adorned it glinted brilliantly in the sun as recognition slid into place with a resounding click in his mind.

"Kojouhaku," he murmured simply. Of course he recognized it. He had designed the cuffs himself as part of the Outrage. The Kojouhaku gave its user the ability to control water magic, or in the Water Witch Arianne Thallassa's case, highly enhanced one's power over water magic.

If the fact that he recognized the Jinki she wore surprised her, the Acting Commander did not show it. She simply nodded. "The new United Nations gave it to me to aid in the speedy destruction of the remaining Gears."

As if on cue, there was an ear-splitting crash before the ground quaked violently beneath them and both the Fuuenken and the Kojouhaku emitted a strong magical pulse in resonance with the nearby Gear. Teal eyes darted in the direction of the commotion, and she took off wordlessly. Dropping the cigarette butt as he jumped to his feet to follow her, he saw the waters of the Seine whirling ominously.

He was only several seconds behind her when they arrived on scene a few roads away. Several buildings were in ruins and injured civilians lined the streets. The Gear was enormous, and resembled a massive floating eyeball, a kind he had destroyed many of. The American moved to attack, but thought better of it when he saw his subordinate raise her arms, eyes closed in deep concentration. With the woman this near a large body of water, the rabid Gear wasn't likely to survive the first attack. The blue jewels of the Kojouhaku glowed on her wrists as a colossal spiral of water rose up into the sky from the river not too far away before hurtling towards the monster with immense force and speed, freezing over as it went.

"Aquarian Legend!" The huge ice spear pierced right through the giant sphere's single eye, lifting it up into the air. There was a brief moment of silence before a loud crack resounded throughout the area as innumerable spikes of ice shot out of the Gear, the icicles dripping black ichor.

Sol heaved a silent sigh as the ruined Gear was slowly lowered to the ground a safe distance away before the water shrunk back to where it had come from. Arianne Thallassa didn't need the Kojouhaku. It was like giving a duck floats. If anything, they should have given the cuffs to her during the war rather than after. It was no wonder that the first thing Justice had done was destroy Japan; even half-Japanese had the potential to gain an abnormal level of power for humans. The fact that her mother had been Japanese was considerably well-hidden, and most documentation indicated her as being purely of Spanish descent. Only her constant visits to the Japanese Colony to visit her late mother's relatives had given her away, and almost no one knew about those either.

Suddenly, he spotted a familiar blond figure limping from one wounded civilian to the next, and repressed the urge to slap his own forehead. The boy had inherited the full set of his namesake's less than savoury personality traits, among which were the utter inability to just mind his own damn business. Even from this far off, he could see that the kid had injured more than just his leg, and he was obviously conveniently ignoring his own injuries in favour of helping others.

"He looks like him," Arianne's voice interrupted his exasperated thoughts.

There was no mistaking whom she meant by 'him', but seeing as the statement didn't warrant a reply, he said nothing, instead merely following his unofficial successor as she walked towards the person in question. She arrived at the blond's side just in time to watch him heal a large gash in a man's stomach. The man was probably one of the luckiest bastards on the planet; had the boy not been here, he would have been dead long before any medical help arrived. The blond was wearing a light brown blazer over a white shirt with a low rounded neckline and white slacks. Light brown leather boots scuffed the asphalt as he shifted to a more comfortable position to finish the healing.

Ky Belucci looked up as footsteps stopped right beside him. Blinking to focus against the glare of the sunlight, he stared at the familiar face of a woman he was fairly certain he had never met. Fleeting memories of cheese tarts and tea under a willow tree in spring ghosted pass, and suddenly, he thought he knew. "Madame… Arianne Thallassa?" he hazarded tentatively.

The woman raised an eyebrow and inclined her head in agreement, but declined to comment as the man the Italian had been patching up slowly rose to his feet and excused himself, muttering a million thanks.

"You never could mind your own God damn business."

The blond blinked, gaze travelling to the owner of a gruff voice he had off pat standing just behind the Holy Order's Acting Commander. "S— Commander Badguy," he amended the greeting quickly, remembering his manners.

Teal eyes twinkled as they slid from the blond to the brunet behind their owner. "Why does it not surprise me that you two are acquainted?"

She was wearing that smile that Sol hated, the one that said in no uncertain terms that she was privy to certain knowledge she wasn't letting on. He declined to answer her, instead turning to the boy who was blushing slightly for some undefined reason. "You're bleeding," he pointed out the obvious, not wanting to sound like he cared either way, as he glanced briefly at the exposed long cut on the other's slender right arm where the blazer had been ripped open by whatever had caused the injury.

Ky smiled faintly. "Yeah…" he agreed softly, pressing a hand lightly to the cut. "I think I might have sprained my ankle as well."

"Take the shoe off," Arianne ordered before her superior could reply. "We should check if anything's broken or dislocated."

As the boy complied by removing both the boot and sock on his left foot, Sol asked the question that had been circling his mind for a few minutes. "Why don't you heal yourself?"

"Obviously because I can't," the other retorted as if that much should be obvious, voice rather clipped from pain as the woman felt the swelling joint with gentle but sure fingers. "I've tried before… doesn't wo— Aaahh!" a yell of pain interrupted his explanation as he heard the joint pop, his leg jerking reflexively.

"You dislocated it," Arianne explained as she stood, pushing her wavy hair back as she did so. "I've realigned it, so put some ice on it when you get back and avoid putting pressure on it for a few days, and it should be fine."

The blond nodded and put his sock and shoe back on, gingerly flexing his left foot before rising slowly. The world seemed to sway. He had probably used up too much magic. Sol stifled a sigh as his subordinate's hand snapped out to grip the boy's arm as he collapsed, reaching into his pocket. He needed a cigarette. A small flame burst to life briefly at the end of the stick of tobacco, and he took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke before finally moving to relieve Arianne of the deadweight she now had propped up against her side with an arm around the blond's chest to support him. Hefting the slender form up easily by the waist, he slung him over his shoulder fireman-style.

"I'll take the kid home," he muttered.

The amused smile on her tanned face spoke waves on just what she thought about his knowing where the boy lived, but she wisely opted not to comment on it. Instead, she simply bowed and said, "Yes, Sir. Do remind him to ice that ankle."

The image of him maiming her brutally briefly crossed his mind before he decided that killing her just wasn't worth it. An attack would probably give her even more satisfaction than she already had, since her magic shielding showed that she clearly expected one. "Get outta my face," he growled, before storming off in the direction of the kid's house.

* * *

**A/N:** There is no official information regarding the form and function of the Kojouhaku. I took my liberties with that one based on its name, which apparently means "White on the Lake". I thought it sounded like water magic. I hope you enjoyed it thus far, and please **TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK**. 

**Much thanks to:**

Ishiwatari Daisuke (for a nice game with nice slashable characters)

Meinarch (for being a lovely muse and beta)

Readers (for reading this at all)

Reviewers (for taking the time! It really means a lot to me)


	3. The Desert Rose Three Step

**Disclaimer: **Please refer to the disclaimer in previous chapters.

**Shinigami Yumi**

presents

**If Your God Were Real**

_Sometimes destiny is what you make it_

_Sometimes people just can't fight it_

_Someone somewhere is always listening_

_So always be wary of what you're saying_

Chapter 3: The Desert Rose Three-Step

Azure eyes blinked blearily up at a familiar ceiling. Ky sat up slowly. When had he gotten home? The last thing he remembered… Either Sol or Arianne had probably sent him home then. He took in the way the bandage on his arm had been wrapped just a little too tight for comfort and the condensation from the ice packs on his ankle soaking the white cotton sheets. He smiled faintly. Yes, that was probably the older man's doing; the American couldn't even be bothered enough to put a towel underneath to keep the bed dry. In fact, the blond realized he should probably be grateful that the other had even sent him home, let alone done anything beyond that.

Gingerly extracting his left leg from under the haphazard pile of ice packs on it, he slowly lowered his legs to the floor to rise, careful to favour his injured side, and limped his way out of his room. The rest of the house was empty. He swiftly pushed away the twinge of disappointment that assailed him in that instant. What was he expecting? Certainly people had better things to do than sitting around waiting for him to regain consciousness. Besides, why would Sol even care enough to stay? It wasn't as if he had been in any danger either.

Ky hobbled back into his room using the wall and doorframe as a support whenever he could. As he lowered himself back to sit on his bed, he noticed his boots, socks, shirt and blazer left carelessly at the foot of the bed. He shook his head slightly in fond exasperation. Then it finally struck. He wasn't… Sol must have taken the shirt and blazer off to bandage his arm. He felt his cheeks heat at the very notion. The image of the brunet undressing him came unbidden to his mind, and he found himself utterly mortified at the way the mere thought of it made his heart speed up and skip a beat. He flopped back and turned to bury his face in his pillow.

_No! No, I shouldn't feel this way! It's wrong, a sin!_ he told himself, but that only served to make things worse; the harder he tried not to think about it, the more the thoughts filled his mind. He thumped his head on the soft fibre pillow several times. _No, no, no, no, no. _Abruptly, he bit his lip and sat up before hurrying to the bathroom as best he could. He needed a cold shower.

----------------------------------------------------

Sol poured himself another glass of whisky from the half-empty bottle on his table, and downed the entire glass in one gulp. What was it about pretty blond boys with the damnable personalities of Roman Catholic grandmother nuns and his life? As if one wasn't bad enough, he had to meet two in the same century. Come to think of it, he had briefly met a few in the previous century too, only he had avoided those like the bubonic plague –well, that being said in the hypothetical assumption that he could catch the plague, which he fortunately couldn't, as immunity was one of the sparse few plus points of being a Gear, a plus point he often resented in moments when he was feeling particularly tired and fed up of life–.

What had changed then? When had avoiding them stopped becoming an option? Indeed when had they even become tolerable? He tossed back another glass full of the sweet-smelling alcohol. He liked this bar. Here at the back corner where he sat, no one ever bothered him. No one even batted an eye at the three empty bottles they were wont to find on the table or the large sword invariably propped up against the wall beside him when they walked past. The proprietors were a pleasant lady with a taste for gothic Lolita outfits who didn't believe in gossiping about her customers and her brother who never did anything but smile and nod. The lighting was dim and the garish neon lights common to such establishments had been kept to a minimum. Best of all, it was as quiet as such places got. The rock music in the background was audible, but never obtrusive. And at least they played Queen fairly regularly. If he was going to have to listen to any music, it'd better be rock, and if it were rock, it'd definitely better be Queen.

Just as he was pouring himself yet another glass of the amber liquid, he heard some commotion outside. Being a Gear, Sol had sharper hearing than most humans. It was one of the reasons he generally liked silence. Human parameters of what constituted the word 'loud' didn't exactly overlap with his. He scoffed silently and poured the entire glass down his throat. Not like it was any of his business. Whoever they were out there could solve their own problems. He had more than enough of his own to deal with not to want to bother with anyone else's. That's when he felt the warm flare of a familiar presence. Sol thumped his head lightly against the wall behind him. Why couldn't that meddlesome blond kid ever mind his own damned business?

He brought the bottle of liquor to his lips and gulped down several mouthfuls. Well, he certainly wasn't going to get involved. The boy could either learn to stay out of trouble, take care of himself or deal with the aftermath personally. He leaned back and savoured the sweet aftertaste of the alcohol. Just then, the noises of things clattering to the ground were heard from outside followed by some muffled conversation that he couldn't make out. It sounded like someone was struggling. The silence that followed immediately after was also somewhat disturbing. He grabbed the nearly empty bottle and finished it off before thumping it rather loudly on the table.

_Fine,_ he thought rather irritably as he brusquely grabbed the Fuuenken and stormed towards the door, leaving the necessary World Dollars on the table. He didn't need another Ky added to the list of people he'd inadvertently killed or caused the death of.

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He'd gone out to buy groceries for the week. As he was on his way back, carrying two full bags of food supplies, he suddenly sensed that he was being followed. Sensibly, Ky started walking faster. The only problem was that he had to pass through a particularly deserted area on his way home. He dreaded that place now. The people following him obviously had nothing good on their minds planned out for him. Briskly turning the corner, he broke out into a run, hoping to get through the necessary few quiet streets as swiftly as possible. Behind him, he heard the tailing footsteps pick up in speed too. He just ran on without looking back. It was best to avoid trouble if possible. There were at least two of them behind him, and they might be armed. It wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

Abruptly, someone stepped right into his path, and he found himself colliding face-on with a hard chest clad only in a green tank top. The impact had him falling to the ground and dropping his shopping. He muttered an apology as he picked himself up and started to leave again, not bothering with the groceries. They weren't worth his safety, after all. He had barely taken two steps when a powerful grip closed around the back of his neck and lifted him off the ground.

"Where do you think you're going, kid?" the man he had bumped into grunted. There was a malicious sneer on his scarred oval face, and he was bald. Judging by the wicked snickers behind him, he was obviously an accomplice of his pursuers. Just his luck.

"Well, well… I didn't expect the healer kid the master wants to be such a pretty boy," came an amused drawl from behind.

"Well, considering the master's tastes, would you have been surprised, Coll?" asked the third, a woman with a raspy soprano.

The sound of the word 'tastes' was enough to make Ky stiffen even as two of his assailants laughed malevolently. Sharply, he kicked forward, hitting the one holding him right where it hurt the most. He was dropped with a loud groan, and immediately, he took off as fast as he could, ignoring the fallen groceries. He never made it past the fifth step. One man pounced on him, grabbing his ankles and taking him to the ground, and his partner grabbed his hands and hauled him up with them held behind him, nearly dislocating his arms in the process. The blond cried out sharply in pain as his attackers dragged him roughly into a nearby alley, struggling to get free and kicking over a nearby metal trashcan in the process.

"Hold him still, Collin," said the woman who now stood in front of him, violet lips curled in a malicious sneer. She had messy chin-length silvery-white hair and a black eye patch over the left of her violet eyes. Her white sleeveless velvet top and violet corduroy long pants hugged her slender figure tightly, and her hands, gloved in violet leather, brandished a syringe filled with a suspicious clear liquid. "He'll be nice and quiet after he's had some of this."

"Hurry, Jeanie…" Collin drawled from behind him, holding him still in a vice-like grip despite his struggles. "I'd like to taste him before we bring him back to the master…"

Ky's eyes widened as a tongue licking up the side of his neck drove the full weight of their words into him, and he struggled harder, only his efforts were futile and the needle pricked the other side of his neck, emptying its contents into a plump vein. Almost immediately, the strength left his body and the world melded into a slow-motion silent movie. He saw Jeanie's full violet lips move slowly, but heard nothing besides a hazy garble a few seconds later.

All of a sudden, he felt inexplicably happy despite the circumstances even as he vaguely felt hands roughly undo the fastenings on his light blue slacks. He laughed without knowing the reason and a mouth covered his open one, a tongue slipping in to taste him. It was all so far away... like he was watching it all from a distance made up of a thick fog between his mind and body.

The mouth covering his own drew away, and he caught sight of orange hair and emerald eyes a moment before a familiar bulky red sword sliced cleanly through the head before him and his field of vision in slow motion, and he found himself laughing cheerfully as the now headless body of his would-be possible rapist gradually slumped forward against him, pinning him to the wall behind him with its dead weight and soaking his beige shirt with the blood spurting and gushing forth from where the head had once been.

It occurred to him as Jeanie slowly leapt over the wire fence on his left in a graceful arc that he probably should have been shocked, maybe even horrified, but all he could do was laugh. He couldn't even explain the laughter. There was nothing funny about the situation at all. He slowly turned to find the bulky crimson blade buried in the chest of the bald man who had first caught him even as the headless body leaning on his chest slid limply to the ground.

Then, familiar arms wound around him and a pair of mismatched red and gold eyes scrutinized dilated azure ones. He let his head loll to the side to rest on the other's shoulder, laughing as the familiar scent of Sol, sweat and blood assailed his senses. Chubby fingers carded briefly through his hair before he felt himself being lifted off his feet. The world spun abruptly as he was slung over the older man's muscular shoulder, and he found himself lurching into pitch black oblivion.

Sol repressed a sigh as he leaned forward to pull the Fuuenken out of the lifeless meat it had sunken into. It seemed that he would always be stuck sending puritanical blond kids home. Neither the boy nor his namesake appeared to be any good at staying out of trouble. He turned and began walking off in the direction of a now well-remembered apartment block. Well, at least he'd managed to keep this one alive so far. That was assuming the bandits had hopefully not shot a lethal dose of whatever drug they had used into him.

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Ky awoke in darkness to the smell of blood, feeling sticky all over. He tried to sit up, but what he could see of his room in the near-total absence of light seemed to phase out of reality and he sank back down, groaning softly. Through the hazy pain in his head, he remembered Sol rescuing him from the thugs. The American must have sent him home, since he was lying on a towel to keep from staining his bed with the blood from his clothes. The smell of blood and the memory of him laughing as it had gushed onto his clothes from the headless body of his attacker was making him sick.

Abruptly, he rolled off the bed, landing haphazardly on his feet and rushed to the bathroom with his hand over his mouth. He barely made it to the toilet before it all burst forth, and he was emptying the contents of his stomach into the water closet. The bile burned his throat, and he could barely hold himself upright to throw up. They had drugged him; his entire body still felt weak and sluggish. He leaned tiredly against the glass partition between the water closet and the shower area, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He still felt ill, but his stomach felt empty.

Slowly, he undid the buttons on his blood-soaked shirt. He had a feeling the dried blood caked to the fabric was falling to the light gray bathroom tiles as a fine rust-coloured powder. In the dark bathroom, he could just barely make out the large round enamel tub beside the door that he had insisted on having. The sink was on the other side of the door, his left, white enamel laid in shiny white marble. The polished steel-rimmed mirror above it faced the tub. That was just as well; he didn't feel up to seeing himself in this state.

When he had finally managed to undo all the fastenings on his clothes, he shrugged them off sluggishly and crawled gingerly into the shower area, reaching up to turn the stainless steel taps with some effort. Steam rose in the cool dark room as he allowed the hot water to rain down on him, barely noticing the slight twinges of pain where it mildly scalded his fair and delicate skin as he grabbed the shower gel and emptied a handful onto himself, scrubbing at the dried bloodstains with the vanilla-scented liquid. It was a long time before he felt clean enough to move on to his hair.

The smell of honey permeated the air as he lathered the shampoo into blond strands. He was probably going to have to dump the clothes and the towel and change the sheets. There was no way he'd be able to live with the stench of bloodshed in the air. Despite how commonplace the smell seemed, it still made him sick. The years of Gear attacks in Corsica had not taken away that gut-wrenching feeling that overcame him at the smell of carnage. He could watch it from afar, could look at the pictures of fallen soldiers with little more than sympathy and gratitude, but the reek of blood made it all so real, drove in the painful truth that people were dead and dying, that human life was so fragile and ephemeral and how millions of people were wasting it away when they could have been doing something important with their time before they died.

The blond wanted to cry as he washed his face with a cleanser that smelled distinctly like green tea, but he felt so hollow inside. There were no tears. And what was the point in crying? He didn't really even feel sad; it was just a sick feeling swirling around inside that was trying to escape, but he couldn't throw up anymore and maybe if he cried, it would go away, maybe he would feel better, but he couldn't do that either. His chest hurt. Burying his face in his knees, he wrapped his arms protectively around himself and let the cooling water continue raining upon him, not wanting to get up until he was sure he could do so without passing out. It was more than an hour, and the water had long since grown cold, before he finally got out of the shower.

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The dripping petals of a peach-coloured rose brushed against his elbow where Sol rested his crossed arms on a stainless steel balcony railing covered in rose and honeysuckle vines. It was a small balcony sheltered by a ledge over it, seven feet wide but only extending four feet outwards. The sliding glass doors behind him separated it from the rest of the apartment. He blew the cigarette butt hanging limply from his mouth away, and it fell down to the wet asphalt below as he reached for the pack in his pocket to shake out and light another one. It was a nice enough place to have a smoke while waiting out the rain that had now dwindled into a drizzle in this quiet part of Paris, and the sweet scent of the flowers permeated the cool damp night air.

Taking a long drag of tobacco smoke, he picked up on the sound of shuffling feet inside the apartment. He contemplated leaving, but it was still drizzling steadily, and he wasn't especially fond of getting himself drenched. The night breeze carried his long brown hair gently backwards, and white lace curtains billowed into the embrace of heavier thick dark blue ones. The steps sounded uncertain, as if the person was staggering slightly rather than walking. He heard movement in the kitchen; the other was taking things out of the drawers and cabinets. He wondered briefly what the other intended to cook in that seemingly unsteady state before deciding that it wasn't really any of his business and returning to staring out at the rainy cityscape as he smoked in silence.

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Slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails closed around the handle of the refrigerator door and tugged it open with much effort. Carefully lifting the container of yesterday's leftover chicken and mushroom soup from the refrigerator shelf, he emptied its contents into a porcelain bowl and popped it into the microwave to reheat. His stomach felt unpleasantly empty, but he didn't feel up to eating anything solid, so the soup would have to do for now. The microwave dinged after the two minutes he'd spent washing the container, and he decided to just drink it in the kitchen. His entire body still felt weak and woozy from the after-effects of whatever drug they'd injected into him, and he wasn't sure he could make it to the dining table outside without falling and spilling the soup all over the wooden floor.

Slowly, he spooned the steaming soup into his mouth, leaning heavily on the kitchen counter and thinking about the large garbage bag in the bathroom that he'd tied up tightly after dumping the bloodstained clothes and towel in. The sheets had thankfully not been stained. At least Sol had been considerate enough to put the towel under him for once. He sighed. Speaking of which, he owed the man his life again. Only the Heavenly Father knew what fate could have awaited him had the bandits really taken him back to their employer. He wondered where the American was presently. It was too much to hope for that the other had stayed for more than a minute after depositing him here. He stared out the kitchen window at the light drizzle falling from the night sky outside as he finished his soup and found himself praying that the older man wasn't out there somewhere getting drenched.

The night breeze blowing in from the open balcony door was chilly from the rain, and Ky was thankful for the warm gray sweater he had on despite how the wide neckline left his throat and most of his shoulders exposed. On his way back to his room to rest after he'd washed the spoon and bowl, he suddenly caught a whiff of cigarette smoke in the air. A strange mix of hope, curiosity and instinct made him shuffle slowly towards the balcony. He wasn't sure why the sight of that familiar form bathed in the moonlight through the lace curtains covering the sliding glass doors as the brunet exhaled a puff of tobacco smoke filled him with a pleasant warmth, but he smiled slightly to himself. The dark blue curtains covering the opening where he always kept one glass panel slid back for ventilation when he was home had obscured the American from view earlier.

"You stayed…" he murmured softly as he parted the curtains to step out onto the small balcony behind the taller man, watching as soft brown strands floated back in the breeze.

The other turned to face him and shrugged carelessly, briefly inclining his head backwards as he dropped the cigarette butt to the empty streets below. "It's still raining," he explained, leaning against the vine-covered railing and not caring how many flowers he might have been squashing.

The blond inched closer, shivering slightly as the chilly night breeze picked up again, and Sol wondered why he had a sudden urge to pull the boy closer. "Thank you… for saving me… again," he whispered, reaching out to caress the moist petals of a nearby honeysuckle.

"Was passing by," came the gruffly muttered reply. It wasn't quite a lie, nor was it quite the truth. It just happened that Sol had been drinking in the bar beside the alley.

He watched as azure eyes slid shut and a slender hand rose slowly to lightly touch the side of that pale neck. The younger man looked unsteady, like he was going to fall, but somehow remained standing. A look of mild disgust crossed delicate features, and suddenly, the brunet knew exactly what the kid was thinking about. Maybe it was the temptingly exposed smooth creamy skin above the light gray sweater; maybe it was the way that shivering slender form begged for warmth. Maybe it was how he looked so much like a certain blond Commander he'd always found ravishing if rather annoying, or how those clear blue eyes had been so full fear, pain and disgust when he had looked into them briefly just moments ago. Or maybe it had just been too long.

He snatched the hand still gently brushing the flower petals and pressed it to his cheek as he almost hauled the blond forward to press his lips to soft pale ones; the Italian still tasted of sweet innocence beneath the chicken and mushroom soup from a moment ago, and he smelt exactly the way he remembered the late saint had: of sweet honey and vanilla. Ky's eyes flew open in shock, but found himself unable to resist opening up to the rough kiss and closing his eyes again as a powerful arm wrapped around him, and he found himself resting almost his entire body weight on the other. It was warm, so wonderfully warm, and it made that suffocating feeling go away. He knew it was wrong, but he needed this, needed Sol, and he didn't have the strength to fight that desperation.

Even knowing that God might never forgive him didn't give him the willpower to refuse what the American was offering. Oh God, he was so weak… but was it really so bad to love someone? Because he did. It was crazy, he knew; they'd only met barely over a month ago, and there was still so much about this man that he didn't know. Yet, the feeling was there, real and undeniable, and impossibly powerful. Maybe it was the dreams; maybe it was the magnetic mystery surrounding the brunet. Or maybe it was the loneliness he saw in mismatched eyes that brought out a desperate longing within him to fill. Oh, if being a woman would make this right, he'd happily have been born a girl. But perhaps if that had been the case, he wouldn't be here with the other man now.

Raising his other hand to cup the brunet's other cheek, he tilted his head back to provide better access as the kiss moved to trail down his throat. He called the other's name softly, inhaling that uniquely male scent buried in long brown strands that was simply Sol. The slight stubble on the older man's chin was rough against his skin as their lips met again, and he tasted bittersweet sin and power in the other under the strong flavour of tobacco. He wrapped his arms around the tanned neck to press their bodies closer. He couldn't explain the feeling of mutual need that wound itself around him as callused hands slid under the sweater to chafe his skin, but he knew they needed each other. He buried his face in the muscular shoulder as the American half-carried him to his bedroom and collapsed with him onto the neatly made queen-sized bed.

He was about to mention the reek of blood, when he abruptly realized that he couldn't smell anything of the sort, although that may have been because he could smell nothing but Sol's somewhat spicy scent as the other tugged his sweater over his head and began trailing kisses over his exposed skin. Reaching for the buckles on the older man's jacket, Ky fumbled to unfasten them, and succeeded in several minutes. Pulling both the red jacket and the black tank top beneath it off, he arched up against planes of smooth firm muscle as a warm mouth closed over a perked nipple, feeling soft fine chest hair brushing his skin. He reached up to unfasten the buckles on the other's bulky headgear, wanting to card his fingers through silken brown strands, but strong fingers wrapped around his own and tugged his hand downwards as Sol moved to nibble lightly on another ruddy nub.

Moaning helplessly as a hand slid under his light brown sweatpants to cup that part of him that was now throbbing insistently, Ky began to work on the buckles on his partner's belt instead, his wish to bury his hands in long brown tresses forgotten for the moment. He writhed as he was roughly caressed through the confining fabric of beige cotton briefs, whimpering as he felt an unfamiliar wetness at the tip and unable to keep his hips from jerking into the American's warm hand. That delicious mouth found his own again, silencing his gasp as his pants and briefs were brusquely tugged down at once, freeing his leaking arousal just as he'd managed to undo the other's jeans. Cool air met heated flesh an instant before a burning hot hand closed around the rigid shaft and stroked hard. Just two rough strokes and he arched back, crying out sharply and unable to keep from coming all over callused fingers as a million waves of pleasure broke against him, drowning him in ecstasy.

"Virgin," that deep bass murmured huskily against his right ear in a teasing tone.

Ky bit his lip and looked away, blushing. "Well, I'm…"

"… such a prude, boy," the other finished for him, smirking.

The blond was about to make another breathless protest, but found himself making a soft sound of pain instead as a moist finger pressed into him. He groaned quietly; it hurt his sensitized flesh so much, but the digit sliding slowly in and out of him somehow felt right. He wrapped his arms around that tanned chest and buried his face in a lean shoulder as a second finger joined the first. Inexplicably, he felt himself hardening again despite the pain, as if those intimate places of his body were begging to be touched. Sol sucked hard at his collarbone, possessively leaving a mark on delicate skin, and Ky reached down to tug fitting jeans off lean hips along with the tight black briefs beneath them.

He winced as a third digit pressed into him, but closed his fingers around the other's stiff member and caressed tentatively. At the other's groan of approval, he began to move his hand more roughly and quickly, cringing and biting his lip as the fingers inside him spread slowly but steadily, stretching his narrow entrance. Abruptly, Sol grabbed his hand and pulled it away, sliding swiftly down his body to take his neglected member into that warm wet mouth, eliciting a sharp gasp from him as the strong suction had him completely erect all over again.

Just then, the burst of pleasure was over and the taller man flipped him over. He turned to see the American grabbing the bottle of lotion he always left beside the digital clock on the bedside table and pour some out onto a slightly roughened palm. Suddenly, it hit him, what the brunet was about to do, and he turned away to bury his head in the pillow, but nothing could have prepared him for the excruciating pain that seared through his system as he was entered in a swift motion. The pillow thankfully muffled his loud scream as the older man groaned softly behind him.

Sol wrapped his arms around the other's slender waist to gently tug the blond to his knees for what was to come before burying the cleaner fingers of his left hand in fine flaxen strands. His other hand moved to caress a now flaccid member gently. In the moonlight drifting through the gap between the pastel blue curtains, the other looked so much like his namesake; he could easily have mistaken them but for the fact that he wasn't likely to ever be doing this with the far more anal-retentive Commander. Still, the younger man was beautiful, and he called the prototype Gear's name softly even now with such an unexplainably wistful longing. If only he knew who –or rather what- he was presently having sex with.

"Sol…" that slightly nasal tenor called again, somewhat breathless from everything that had transpired in the last ten minutes. The Italian bit his lip as Sol continued to gently brush his fingers against sensitive skin, every caress finding more intimate ground.

"Mm…" he murmured vaguely, not bothering with words as he trailed kisses up that slender neck. The boy was so tight; he needed to move now, but first, he had to keep the blond from screaming too loudly in pain.

"God won't forgive me… I think…" the other whispered quietly as he used the hand buried in golden hair to gently tilt the younger man's head back, and traced the delicate jaw-line with kisses. "Nngh…" he moaned as he was touched somewhere new. "I can't even repent… mm."

The American caught the other's lips in his own before the boy could sound any more like a certain Frenchman than he already did and slid out of that constricting heat only to thrust back in sharply, instinctively adjusting his aim. The kiss rather effectively silenced the other's sharp cry of pain and the whimper of pleasure that followed when he hit that sensitive gland directly. Cries of pain became ardent pleas for more as he continued to move in and out of that willowy body, steadily increasing his pace as he thumbed the tip of the hardness in his hands roughly in a matching rhythm.

Ky leaned forward to brace his elbows on the bed, the word 'please' and his partners name interspersed with incoherent sounds of pleasure and entreaties in both French and Italian falling raggedly from his lips. He pushed back as the older man drove into him, forcing the other deeper into his body, and his back arched reflexively in response to that explosive burst of pleasure that erupted deep within. The hand fisted in his hair had moved to his shoulder, and it now slid across his sweat-slick skin to tease stiff nipples again.

He recognised that building pressure well enough now, that feeling of being so full of pleasure and passion that it just had to escape, and found himself both wanting to hold it all in forever and to just let it free so he could fly with it all at the same time, but soon, it was no longer an option for him. He came, Sol's name on his lips as everything, the entire world, ceased to matter in that one instant of completion, of being perfect and whole, of being lost and drowning in a wild yet heavenly sea of ecstasy with someone so very special.

Gasping slightly as hot semen jetted into him, he heard Sol groaning behind him before a warm weight settled over his body when they both slumped into the soft mattress together, bodies sweaty and spent. The American turned onto his side and, he followed suit, finding strong arms still wrapped around him as he tugged the thin white cotton blanket that had somehow been pushed aside during their activities over them both. Ky sighed contentedly, lacing the fingers of his left hand with that of the older man's to keep it pressed to his chest and enjoying the feeling of having the other still inside him. It wasn't long before he drifted off to sleep.

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The weak light filtering into the room through the gaps between the pastel blue curtains covering the room's two windows indicated that it hadn't been long since dawn had broken over the city of love. Blue eyes blinked sleepily at the sight of the clear blue sky through the glass above the bed's dashboard, their owner feeling unusually warm and contented that morning. Buried in a mess of blankets, limbs and sheets, Ky felt like he never wanted to get out of bed again. It was so wonderfully warm right where he was, and the very thought of leaving this heaven made him snuggle deeper into it.

At some point in the middle of the night, he had turned to face his companion. He smiled now, threading his fingers through the long brown strands strewn all over bare tanned skin, as he watched the other sleep. Even relaxed in slumber, the other's face seemed somehow drawn, making the blond wonder what kinds of horrors were hidden in the other's mysterious past. He suddenly noticed that the brunet was still wearing the bulky red headgear. It puzzled him as to how the taller man could sleep with what appeared to be a big chunk of metal tied to his forehead; it looked so very uncomfortable!

Ky reached out tentatively, not wanting to wake the other, and began slowly and carefully undoing the buckles. He was surprised when the other did not even stir, recalling how the man had immediately awoken completely alert at the barest hint of movement the last time he had seen the Commander asleep. In fact, he was rather surprised that Sol had even spent the night. In truth, he had expected to wake up alone this morning; the American was always so distant and withdrawn in his own way; he wouldn't have put it past the gruff and unsociable man to leave within an hour or two after he had fallen asleep. A gentle smile curved his lips.

_He must feel safe here…_ he thought happily as he finally managed to unfasten the last buckle. Carefully, he peeled the accessory away from tanned skin and matted hair. The sight that greeted him made the breath hitch in his throat and the hand on the headpiece shake slightly. The Gear mark glowed a malicious orange on the other man's forehead, and he found himself unable to look away, eyes wide with shock, confusion and horror. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined the truth he now saw with cruel and unforgiving clarity. _He… Commander Sol Badguy of the Holy Order… is a Gear..? But how..? Why is he fighting them instead of us? I… Did the Order know all along? Did the previous Commanders know all along and hide that fact from the world?_

Perhaps he should have known; it would have taken just that sort of raw power to defeat Dizzy. Now he knew why Sol never removed the headgear; not keeping that mark covered would get him hunted. It also explained the mismatched eyes, and the gruff unsociable exterior that kept most people from getting too close. But Gears were ruthless demons, vicious enemies of humanity, weren't they? They didn't eat human food or bleed or… or love anything… or did they? How could a Gear seem so… so… so human? He had seen the other's wounds, and they bled red blood, not the black ichor that ran in the bodies of other Gears. They had eaten together on many occasions, and after everything that had happened, he couldn't believe that the brunet felt absolutely nothing for him now. _Sol… How..? He can't… I…_ Denial didn't get anywhere when the harsh truth was staring him straight in the face. The bulky metal accessory fell limply from his trembling fingers.

In a flash, mismatched eyes flew open, only they were both red now, and he knew that the expression he was wearing on his face was a big mistake, but failed to fight the fear that came from years of living in constant trepidation of Gear attacks. He tried to tell himself that it was alright, that the American wouldn't hurt him, but he couldn't fight the building terror down. He could feel it paralysing him as it wound itself around his spine, and he simply stared, too stunned to even speak. He opened his mouth to say the other's name, but no sound came out. He tried again, and managed a whisper this time.

"Sol..?" he tried tentatively, voice a hoarse whisper. "I…" But what was he going to say? He didn't even know what to think, let alone what words he could utter aloud.

Sol stared at the look of shocked terror on the blond's face, painfully reminded of why it really had been so long since he'd last spent any extensive amount of time with a person: it kept him out of fixes like this one. All of a sudden, he felt angry -angry at himself for being the world's most foolish genius many times over, angry at the boy for being utterly unable to leave well enough alone, angry at the universe and everything in it for keeping him alive this long-, and with the rage came that familiar rush of power and bloodlust that he had always feared and tried to suppress. That was why he had designed the headpiece; he feared the things he could do in those moments when he completely lost control of that voice in his head that screamed 'Kill! Kill! KILL!' with maniacal fervour.

Before he even realized he was moving, he had the other pinned to the wall by the throat a few inches off the floor. The impact with which that willowy body had hit the hard brick of the wall had the boy choking out blood as a hairline crack formed in the painted beige surface. Dilated eyes blinked slowly as slender hands reached up feebly to close around his wrist, and he tightened his grip in a rush of malevolent violence, watching detachedly as the human struggled for air, struggled to say something that might save his life before his pitiful existence was extinguished by a crushed windpipe. He snarled ferociously at that hopeless attempt.

"S… Sol…" The words were faint, and the effort it took to say them was apparent. "P-Please…"

Azure eyes looked weakly into his own, and suddenly, it was a different place, a different time. He could taste the dust, smell the carnage on the wind, and a slender blond's blood felt exactly the same way it did on his hands over eighteen years ago. "Ky…" No. What had he done? What was he doing? It wasn't real; it wasn't supposed to be like this. He staggered back; his head hurt. The other's lithe body slid limply to the ground with a soft, sickening thud, and the smell of human blood was suffocating in the dry air. He screamed as raw pain seared through his entire being, holding his head in his hands. This was wrong, all wrong. He needed to go, to get away from this place. It wasn't supposed to hurt. The world wasn't supposed to turn out like this. He turned and ran, grabbing the only things instinct said were important -two pieces of red metal lying nearby in a large pile of cloth- and leaping out the nearest exit into the deserted concrete jungle outside.

Ky watched as the Gear backed away with his hands gripping his head tightly, and tried to move, tried to reach out to touch the person he suddenly found he didn't know how to stop loving as the other screamed in such agony, but he didn't have the strength. His entire body hurt; it was difficult to even stay conscious. He tried to call the brunet's name even as the man spun around, grabbed the cotton sheet on the bed with their clothes and his sword in it, and tore out of the room like a man gone mad, but he couldn't make his voice work; it all hurt too much.

He collapsed weakly to the wooden floor, still trying to call out to the brunet. Because he remembered now. He remembered sixteen years of living and then fighting in a bloody war, of trying to change an impudent and boorish American knight, of trusting a rival and a friend to do what he never had the time to do. He remembered everything now, and he knew he couldn't let Sol go because the man wouldn't come back, because even if the older man was a Gear, he was still and would always be Sol, and now, he'd never get a chance to tell him that it really was alright. The room hazed over, and he finally let go, slipping into the soothing oblivion that was quick to embrace him.

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**A/N:** The title refers to the song entitled "One Step Forward, Two Steps Back" by the Desert Rose Band. You don't have to hear the song to catch my drift, right? I hope you've enjoyed it thus far, and please **TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK**. Also, this is the un-beta-ed version, so if you find any mistakes, please inform me and I'll look into it ASAP. Complain about the smut and it's your loss, not mine. Thank you.

**Much thanks to:**

Ishiwatari Daisuke (for a nice game with nice slashable characters)

Meinarch (for being a lovely muse and beta)

Readers (for reading this at all)

Reviewers (for taking the time! It really means a lot to me)


	4. Nobody Wants To Be Lonely

**A/N:** This one was a long time in coming, but I hope you're still with me here. I wish to say that I have not been on hiatus for this fic at all; it is the top priority of all my current ongoing fanfics and the only one I've never put on hold yet. I just happen to have a job and a social life, which you're going to have to understand. So while I appreciate being wheedled for updates, there's still only so much time I can actually spend writing. Now, this is the un-beta-ed version, since I haven't been able to catch my beloved Meinarch online, so I'll appreciate it if you inform me should there be any mistakes in the chapter. Also, I have given up on trying to make this site agree with me on my opinions of decent formatting, so please try to overlook the lack thereof. That said, please enjoy the story and REVIEW.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Guilty Gear, I'd have made a BL dating simulation version and an image song album by now. I also wouldn't be writing this piece of FANfiction.

* * *

Chapter 4: Nobody Wants To Be Lonely

"Hey. Monsieur. I know you're alive, and you don't have a concussion. Monsieur?"

Bleary blue eyes blinked slowly up at concerned teal ones. A heavy metal band was holding a concert at full blast in his head, and his entire body hurt.

"Ah, finally. A stretcher is on the way up from the ambulance downstairs to take you to an Order-controlled hospital."

Ky tried to speak but found that he couldn't quite make his throat work. His former subordinate had found a large towel to throw over his naked body, and he managed a blush at the thought that the lady had found him completely nude. If Arianne noticed the flush to his pale cheeks, she politely chose not to comment on it, and for that he was grateful. She did, however, notice his struggle to communicate, and quickly returned with a glass of water, which she used her powers to carefully stream past his slightly parted lips. The moisture was heaven to his parched throat, and this time, he managed a hoarse whisper through the pain.

"Sol…" he rasped softly.

There was a moment of silence from the Acting Commander of the Holy Order, during which her brow furrowed slightly in anxiety, accentuating normally unnoticeable age lines. "As I thought… He did this?" she asked quietly, looking piercingly into his eyes as if daring him to lie to cover for the other man.

"It's not… what… you think…" he replied with effort, looking away. Even the slightest movement was painful, and Ky sincerely prayed that he hadn't broken anything.

She scoffed slightly. "He lost control of his Gear side, didn't he?" She rose to look out the bedroom window at the sunny sky as she voiced the question. "For all our sakes, I hope it doesn't get out of hand." She squeezed teal eyes shut and raised a hand to massage a lightly tanned temple.

"You… knew..?" the blond asked incredulously, azure eyes widening as the implications of her words sank in. Then, it was true that the Order had kept things under wraps. Had Master Kliff known as well? Was he the only one who had been kept in the dark? Was that the real reason none of the other knights had liked Sol back during the Crusades?

"I was there when he killed Dizzy. My family have been Craft Users, occultists and mediums for generations. You think I couldn't tell? No human could have achieved the level of power he exhibited and the more and harder he fights, the stronger the Gear presence around him grows." Her coppery locks bounced lightly as she turned to fix a level gaze on him. "Since he saved us all, I saw no reason to cause him trouble, but if he does go berserk…" She buried her face in her hands. "I cannot allow such a hazard to humanity to wander free… Dear God, it's going to be a tough battle. And we haven't even found and dealt with Testament yet."

"It… was my fault…" Ky closed his eyes. The headache was getting worse, and the light was only exacerbating the agony. "I removed… the limiter…"

Before anything more could be said, the door opened, and a few paramedics entered with a stretcher. It was clearly best to keep their discussion between them, so they fell silent. The pain that seared through him as they lifted him onto the stretcher nearly caused him to lose consciousness again, but he somehow stayed awake, and soon felt liquid relief coursing through him as a dose of anaesthesia was injected into his bloodstream. The trip down to the ambulance passed in a blur, and he very quickly found himself drifting off from the drug's effects. He was again asleep long before they reached the hospital.

* * *

The corner café looked just the same as it did nearly twenty years ago; there were only a few noticeable refurbishments, perhaps parts that had to be rebuilt after they were destroyed during the parts of the war that he'd missed. It was far from where he presently lived in the outskirts of Paris that stretched towards Chateau Versailles, but having regained his memories recently, he felt the strange desire to revisit some of his favourite locales back when he had lived in Marais, near the ruins of the Bastille prison. Whenever he was back in Paris and there was a lull in Order duties, he would come here for a cup of tea or one of their signature home-smoked ham and grilled camembert batard sandwiches. He was pleased to see that his usual table was free, although he hadn't sat there in nearly two decades. He smiled slightly as a menu was brought to him by a young brunette with a Southern accent in a brown knee-length pinafore worn over a collared white shirt. 

The menu appeared to have been recently reprinted, and he didn't recognize any of the people working in the shop. The young man at the counter resembled the last proprietor though, so perhaps father had passed the café on to son. The offerings, at least, hadn't changed much. He offered the girl a slight smile when she returned with a notepad and ordered his usual sandwich and tea, but decided to try out their onion soup as well.

Smiling coquettishly, she pivoted on one foot, making her skirt fly up slightly, before leaving to put in his order, swaying her hips slightly as she walked. It didn't take a genius to see that she was trying to attract his attention -the girl could hardly have made it more blatant-, but a fateful night nearly three weeks ago had finally driven home the truth of his preferences, and Ky had realized at long last why he had never gone beyond the first few dates with any of the girls he had seen in both his lifetimes. There had been quite a number, come to think of it, mostly nice girls and pleasant company, but somehow, his interest had never quite held; the attraction just wasn't there.

Back during the Crusades, he thought it was because the war left him with little time to pursue such trivial fancies. Furthermore, death was a constant shadow on a soldier's life, and he had no intention of disillusioning anyone with a fleeting romance and eternal loss. In any case, he had been young then, and most times, he had genuinely believed that he may just have been rather unprepared for the commitment of a relationship, an illusion he had continued to nurse even in the past few years of this lifetime. He still recalled several of the dates he had accepted back in Corsica; it had always been the girls who'd asked him out, since he'd never succeeded at working up sufficient interest, and they had always done most of the talking. One of the more memorable ones had been the charming daughter of a wealthy German immigrant, one he remembered for her sense of humour and wide general knowledge.

Sonja Diamant was one of the few whose company he had genuinely enjoyed despite his lack of interest in romance. They had conversed about a large variety of topics, and she had always been able to make him laugh no matter how sombre the atmosphere. He had liked her, really, although not in the way she had hoped, and shrewdly sensing his emotional unavailability after several dates, she had rather easily settled for staying just friends and moved on. He still received the occasional e-mail or letter from her, and it appeared that she had found quite a perfect match in a successful Swiss entrepreneur her entire family greatly approved of. He was happy for her, although he'd often wondered why he had never felt anything beyond warm friendship for her. She had been pretty enough, with curves in all the right places without being too thin, her jet black pageboy framing a fair oval face from which twinkling smoky green eyes peered out in a constantly jovial expression.

God help him, his lack of self-understanding was fairly astounding; it had actually taken him two lifetimes to figure out his own sexuality. Not that he was pleased to find out about it either; he still thought it was wrong. He had… sinned… with a member of his own gender, and he had loved it, pleaded for more and regretted its swift end. Moreover, he couldn't even honestly repent anything except the mistake he had made the following morning that had driven Sol away from him, perhaps for good. He wanted to forget it, wanted to fight it and find a nice girl to settle down with and start a normal family eventually, but every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he would hear a raspy teasing bass asking him what he wanted, dredging forth memories of rough kisses and strong hands touching him, always touching him, chafing his skin until his body errantly responded and he awoke, skin slick with perspiration and blood hot with unadulterated desire.

Not for the first time did he wonder how it could possibly be wrong to love another, even of the same gender, when God clearly taught his children to love everyone. Of course, he understood that it was the sexual, and not the emotional, aspect that God disapproved of, but search his soul as anyone might, one could hardly say it was mere lust. One kiss had his entire being thrumming with a strangely fulfilling connection that completely transcended the physical. Even now, he could feel the deep sense of longing that filled him to just be close to the other man, to feel those powerful arms encircling him protectively in a moment of perfect peace and contentment. Ky rubbed his temples and shook himself slightly to rid his mind of the tantalizing images. Two lifetimes, and still Sol Badguy haunted his days. Even more disturbing was how very intertwined their destinies were; how many people meet acquaintances from their past lives anyway? Odds were he was alone in the category of those who actually had. That they had met entirely by chance was almost too coincidental to be true.

Sometimes he didn't know whether it made things better or worse that he'd found out the truth about the man. It had pretty much turned his world inside out and upside down, shattering everything he had ever believed about Gears, shedding light on so many things that had previously made little sense while at the same time uncovering new questions to be answered. It had shocked him to the core, first that he had failed to notice a Gear that close to him throughout the Crusades and the dangers that mistake could have caused had Sol possessed any malicious intent, and secondly, that Arianne had known almost all along and yet never told a soul.

Her belief that Kliff Undersn might have suspected as much even if he had never found any concrete proof was equally staggering. All this while, there were people who had known of a Gear in human ranks and maintained their silence? It was unbelievable. Not to mention the million-dollar question that he had been perpending since his ill-fated discovery of Sol Badguy's true nature. Justice was Gear 001, a command-type Gear whom all Gears were compelled to obey. If Sol was a Gear, then why had he fought on the side of humans? Surely, he couldn't have escaped Justice's mind control or notice… unless Justice had commanded him to infiltrate the Holy Order and… No, that was impossible. Sol had helped kill Justice. Why and how he had betrayed his kind was still a mystery and one that the former Commander couldn't seem to solve.

Drawn out of his reverie, Ky muttered his thanks as a porcelain saucer and teacup were set down before him, followed closely by a matching teapot and a plate on which small pots of sugar, milk and honey as well as a dish of lemon slices had been set. The waitress then placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of him before bending forward a lot lower than was strictly necessary to pour him his tea. The scent of peppermint mingled with her floral perfume as he realized how very close they were, and he leaned back to put some distance between them while avoiding the overpowering fragrance that resulted. Realizing that her plan to subtly accentuate her cleavage had failed, she simply offered him another coquettish smile before leaving him to begin his meal.

He sighed as he tasted the flavourful warm liquid, his thoughts wandering back to a certain boorish American. He still couldn't fathom how he had ended up on the other side of that thin line between love and hate. Sol was… Sol was uncouth, impudent, boorish, stubborn, condescending and a walking blasphemy. He smoked, drank way too much and could be totally insensitive and unreasonable. Sol was a Gear, one of the monsters that had killed his entire family. Well, almost his entire family, if this lifetime was taken into account. But that thought failed to bring the rage, hatred and terror that it used to evoke in him, that it probably should stir in him. He wanted to loathe the man, had always wanted to, but it was hard to feel any of the intense dislike he had once harboured for the older man now. Just what did he see in that guy? God, the other was a Gear, and he still couldn't seem to think of him as one! He pressed his fingers to his forehead in frustration.

Finishing his soup, he tried to think about some of the brunet's more preferable traits. Despite their many conflicts and how he'd never thought Sol to be a particularly responsible person, the other man had always proven himself worthy of his trust. He smiled wistfully at the memory of the Gear telling him how much he hated him for making him take over the Order. It wasn't as if he'd had a choice. Sol alone possessed the power to carry out his dying wish, and there was no one else he would have entrusted the world to.

And he didn't regret it; everyone was safe now. There were no more wars, and no one had to die or watch their loved ones die horrible deaths anymore. Children were studying instead of fighting, and people were free from terror to live their lives the way they chose. All was as it should be, and Arianne's decision to keep the truth about their saviour a secret had proven to be extremely wise. She had even gone so far as to file false reports regarding the incident that had recently left him hospitalized for two weeks due to minor fractures and internal injuries, hoping to let sleeping dogs lie if possible. Since he hadn't heard any news either way, Sol had probably done a great job of going into hiding, something the Gear was probably remarkable at.

That having been said, the American was also an extremely strong fighter with a shrewd mind. Ky had never won any of their duels, while Sol had always seemed to need no effort to defeat him. Talking to the brunet was always intriguing, if equally frustrating. It was nearly impossible to obtain information from him that he wasn't prepared to share, and he always knew how to turn the conversation in his favour no matter how well the blond planned out his responses. He had a roguish charm and a lazily condescending sense of humour that few appreciated, and he never really cared what anyone else thought, be it of him or of the world he lived in, resigned to being alone in his understanding and perceptions of everything because no one else had the same experiences he'd lived through, and there was no one who could or would understand.

And suddenly, Ky realized what had attracted him all along. Sol was strong and fiercely independent. Sol didn't expect anything of him, and Ky was tired of expectations. Everyone he'd ever known had expected him to do or be something for them, whether it was saving the world, solving their problems, protecting them or even giving them hope by pretending he had more of it than they did. With Sol, he could be free. He could be himself, and it wouldn't change a thing. The older man didn't need anything from him. In fact, he could clearly remember several occasions in which the brunet had saved his life. With Sol, he was free; he was safe; he didn't have to worry about everything because he could trust the other to be there for him. It was… liberating.

That didn't make it any less wrong, but… he couldn't help the way he felt. How could anyone make oneself stop loving another person? Was it not the heart that chose? Burying his face in his hands, he felt so lost and confused. Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed as his sandwich was set down before him. He was suddenly overcome by the desire to visit the nearest church. He needed to make a confession and pray for guidance and forgiveness.

_Why, heavenly Father, if this is wrong, did you lead me back to him?_ he asked silently.

"Monsieur? Is everything alright?" the waitress asked with polite concern, drawing him out of his reverie.

He glanced up briefly at her, and offered her a slight smile. "Yes. I'm fine. Thank you."

She was quite attractive, really, but her blatant attempts at flirting with him were rather distasteful. Even now, one perfectly manicured hand played with the long brown braid trailing down over her right shoulder as she smiled winningly. "How was the soup, monsieur?"

"Very nice, thank you," he replied honestly.

"You're alone?"

Ky recognized the hint she was giving him, and fumbled for a way to gently turn her away. While he didn't like her, he also saw no reason to hurt her feelings. "I... Not exactly," he said, trying for an evasive answer that would subtly send a message of disinterest across.

Her smile turned somewhat conspiratorial. "Well, people say food always tastes better with company."

He gave her another brief smile with a slightly apologetic look. "I'm rather fond of peace and quiet."

She shrugged, looking just a tad disappointed as she caught his subtle rejection. "Alors, bon appétit." She twirled around once before walking away anyway. (Something like, "Well then, enjoy your meal," in French)

Somewhat relieved, the blond turned to his sandwich, taking a sizeable bite. It was still delicious, but they really didn't make the cheese like they used to. Maybe it was just him, but he firmly believed they made better cheese in his previous lifetime. At least the ham still tasted the same as he remembered. Wanting very much to be in a church instead of a café, Ky quickly finished his sandwich and asked for the bill, which the waitress brought to him wordlessly and without incident, apparently having finally given up on attracting his attention. The change was brought back just as he had downed the rest of his tea. He rose, reaching for the change, when something caught his eye. Something had been written on the receipt. He blinked as azure eyes focussed on the dainty cursive. It was a name and a number. He smiled ruefully as he pocketed the change and walked away in the direction of his favourite church back during the Crusades, not doubting whence it came. Éléonore Dominique was a persistent girl. He left the receipt where it was.

* * *

The beautiful Roman Catholic basilica cresting the hill overlooking the area known as Montmartre was busy with the usual mixed crowd of tourists and believers now that the war was over and tourism was again a viable trade and pastime. Having decided to clear his mind with a long walk up the many stone steps leading up to the church instead of taking the not-too-recently restored funicular railway, the dim near-silence of Sacré-Cœur was as welcoming as Christ's open arms in the picture depicted in mosaic on its central dome ceiling as Ky dipped his fingers into the small basin of holy water and did the sign of the cross on his knees facing the altar. 

Rising, he glanced over at the glass confession box to his right with its thin white curtains obscuring its interior. He had come here planning on making a confession, but he wondered if that would really help him. He sighed, turning away from the booth and making his way towards the pews nearer to the front instead. He could already mentally hear the reverend advising him to forget this temporary temptation of the devil and increase his love for God through praying the rosary on all the four sets of Mysteries a certain number of times. If only that helped… He already faithfully prayed the rosary on all four sets of the Mysteries everyday as it were, and Sol was as nagging a problem as ever, albeit a problem he had to reluctantly admit was his favourite mistake ever. God, that thought was probably blasphemy, especially in a church.

The clear and soothing voices of the brothers and sisters in choir rose to echo within the cathedral's stone walls, signalling that the evening mass was about to begin. Ky cleared his mind, tuned out the people around him and kneeled to pray, kissing the silver cross on the ash wood rosary he always kept in his pocket before making the sign of the cross and beginning on the Apostle's Creed with practiced ease. Mass and the rosary sounded like as good an idea to unravel the chaotic confusion swirling in his mind right now as any. If he was blessed, he might get some divine guidance while praying and meditating.

* * *

The road hazed over before him as he staggered his way along the dark deserted alley, holding onto the faded tan-coloured brick wall for support. He could feel drying blood soaking his clothing, although the thick light brown cloak wrapped around him hid his wounds well. A gentle breeze picked up, blowing several stray pieces of litter across his path, and he shivered slightly, wincing at the pain that erupted in his side at the movement. Red eyes blinked as their owner's vision blurred slightly again, and Sol turned to lean his back heavily on the wall to rest for several moments. He squeezed his eyes shut. If the warm early autumn air was chilling him, the blood loss was certainly beyond even his Gear abilities to overcome. 

He moved his hand away from where he'd had it pressed to the long deep gash at his side for the past hour or so. It was covered in coagulating blood, sticky and dark red. The wound hadn't stopped slowly oozing blood since he had received that cut from one of the two Megadeath class Gears he had run into earlier that day, and that gave him reason to suspect that the claw was mildly poisoned to inhibit the healing process; the enhanced healing powers of a Gear should have at least stopped the bleeding by now, if not healed him completely. The fight would have been much easier had there not been civilians on the scene; he had refrained from using some of his more explosive attacks to keep from killing them with the monsters.

His throat and chest hurt, both from the three long slashes he had received and from coughing up what little diamond dust he had inhaled during the fight. The slashes were almost completely healed, but the fact that they could still be seen after so long showed just how much of his magic was being used to control the bleeding in his side. While his body apparently couldn't close the wound, it could greatly slow the bleeding. Otherwise, he would have been long dead.

Come to think of it, he didn't mind the thought in the least. Death seemed like it would be such a relief now; he was so tired of living, or rather existing, after all these years. He sighed. No. No, his work wasn't done yet. He couldn't die before he had taken care of Testament. All these monstrosities and all the devastation they had caused was his fault, the end result of a great dream gone horribly wrong. He had created them, and he would destroy them. It was his responsibility to clean up his own mistakes; he had no right to make it someone else's problem.

Sol straightened a little at that burst of determination that filled him. Somehow, he had to survive until he found and destroyed Testament, the last of the humanoid Gears besides himself. Once that was done, he would be able to die a peaceful death. Once his final atonement was complete, he would at last be able to rest. But right now, he needed medical attention. The only problem was that he trusted doctors and scientists as much as he trusted Justice on an interspecies peace and understanding campaign, and the last thing he needed was a bunch of crazy researchers getting weird ideas from his DNA samples collected during the treatment process. He couldn't and wouldn't go to a hospital. That left one other option in mind.

No, that wouldn't do. Now that the boy knew what he was, there was no telling what he would do if they met now. Gears had destroyed his life right from the start, and he had every reason to hate them. He still remembered the look of intense shocked terror in azure eyes that fateful morning. He was a monster to the blond now. Heck, he was a monster even to himself. What reason could the boy possibly have to help him? He would even consider himself fortunate if the Italian didn't either run off screaming or call the Holy Order down on him. The American let out a self-deprecating scoff.

Yet, at least… if it was that boy, he wouldn't be running the risk of turning into a lab specimen. In the worst case scenario, he could always find his way back to some deserted corner of the country to die. Even in this state, the slender blond didn't have the power to stop him. And if Order forces found him… well, Arianne was a smart woman; she would know better than to allow anything scientifically useful to be taken. If he trusted nothing else in the water witch, he trusted her wisdom.

Well, that cinched it then. It wasn't as if he had a better alternative. Pushing himself upright again, he resumed his unsteady walk down the alley, only this time with a specific destination in mind. Hopefully, the boy was as kind-hearted as his namesake, and that charitable side of him would win out. With that in mind, Sol told himself he would make it to the kid's doorstep. It wasn't far, and he couldn't die just yet. It was just a few miles, an access code he recalled well and four flights of stairs away. Yes, he was definitely going to make it there.

* * *

The cool morning air caressed his skin in wispy touches as Ky's booted feet clicked softly on the asphalt. He had just mailed his applications to the few universities he'd chosen, and was enjoying the pleasantly warm rays of the morning sun on his way back from the nearby post office. Regaining his memories had the somewhat confusing effect of overlapping memories. It resulted in mixed feelings about many things, an occasionally displaced sense of time as well as erratic bursts of paranoia. There were mornings when he awoke thinking it was a certain day approximately two decades ago and panicking over oversleeping and missing the Order's morning gatherings. On some days, he felt perfectly comfortable reading on a park bench surrounded by open space; on others, the mere sound of approaching footsteps from behind would have him raising shields against magic –now that he remembered how to do that- and tensing in preparation to evade an attack that would never come. 

He also found himself sometimes looking forward to and sometimes dreading the idea of going to university. The part of him that had lived this life remembered what it was like in ordinary educational institutions and looked forward to resuming the pursuit of knowledge at a higher level as well as meeting new friends. The other part… Well, having spent his entire past life in war, whether as an evacuating civilian or as a militant fighting for the people's safety, he had never been to a normal school.

Before she had passed away in the Gear attack that destroyed his hometown in Lyon, his mother had taught him to read and write. Then, he had attended a few classes at evacuation centres to improve. Later, he joined the training academy for the Holy Order, and there he had learnt advanced French and English along with fighting techniques, magic usage, weaponry studies, battle tactics, the history of the Crusades and the latest information known about Gears. Anything else he'd learned were a result of his liking for books. He didn't feel prepared to deal with people and an environment where the greatest worry hanging over anyone's head was getting assignments done well and on time and scoring decent grades on examinations.

On one level, he had experienced that simple life before and felt that he could fit right in. On another level, he knew he'd always feel out of place, old even. It left him both excited and worried. It would be nice to be surrounded by easygoing people who didn't tread on eggshells around him, but he also wondered if he'd ever get used to it. He would enjoy meeting new and interesting friends in their own right, but he also knew that they would never truly know or understand him. He would probably receive Valentines and be asked out on dates just as he had been back in Corsica, but even as a part of him was fairly accustomed to it, the other part of him wondered how he would react to such things. It all left him trying to sort out a large jumble of emotions.

To top it all off, as if one wasn't complicated enough, he had to deal with two levels of feelings for a certain boorish American. There was this lifetime's innocent attraction, warm affection, deep gratitude and pure love that could almost be an infatuation. Then, there was also the proud rivalry, instinctive trust, emotional dependence and the restrained mix of love and hate from many years spent fighting relentlessly together or against each other in a bleak war where everything sometimes seemed so hopeless that one just had to seek a distraction to stay sane and someone to lean on when strength seemed to have dissipated, leaving behind an empty hole.

Then there was the part of him that had never known the horrors of the Gears in anything more than several attacks spread out over a lifetime; that part was fairly ready to accept and overlook the truth he'd recently discovered, still young as he was and still believing in ideals of love. The part of him that had spent his entire life watching Gears destroy everything that mattered to him, however, was hardly as forgiving and somewhat more cynical; the truth had brought him many doubts, among which were if Sol was capable of caring about anything or anyone at all and whether or not he should kill the brunet the next time they met. He was a Gear, after all, a demon, but… but he was also… Sol. Coupled with the ghost of loneliness and incessant longing that he had always felt for the older man, this emotional duality might have been the cause of his recent mental turmoil and inability to sort out what he wanted with the American.

While they had never really been together in a romantic sense until just over a month back, if one could even call that romance, he realized he'd secretly always wanted things that way no matter how much he'd continuously tried to deny it. It was wrong, but that didn't change the fact that he wanted it. Truly, he was a sinner, and an unrepentant one, at that; God didn't forgive those who didn't repent their sins. He sighed heavily as he walked on absently, letting his feet take him back home on autopilot.

Looking back, he came to recognize that part of the dislike he had initially felt for Sol stemmed from an underlying feeling of envy he had refused to acknowledge. He had envied the man's strength, his courage and resulting freedom to live his own life without caring about society's constraints or what others thought of him and the way he seemed to be able to just take life as it came. The man's extensive list of bad habits and traits had only fed his dislike. It was funny how he had envied the very aspects he had fallen for later. His being a Gear was relatively a very good and perfectly justified reason to hate the man, but just when he needed that burst of intense dislike to keep him from sinning further, it simply refused to come.

It was peaceful walking along quiet roads with quaint little houses and shops as well as the occasional apartment complex on either side as scenery, one of the benefits of living in the outskirts away from busy, dusty streets and the unending rows of apartments atop shops in the city centre. There were only a handful of people about, some doing their morning exercises, some walking to work or school, some putting out the laundry and even some tending their gardens.

All of a sudden, he spotted someone strolling towards him that made him tense. Part of him panicked as recognition sank in, and the memories recognition brought made him balk. That woman. The morning breeze blew her messy silvery-white hair into her violet eyes, and she reached up with slender fingers to push the errant strands away. He caught sight of her violet nail varnish that matched the shade of her lipstick and the shiny pearl earrings he hadn't seen that night. She had left the gloves and eye patch behind and wore a simple sleeveless white sweater over fitting violet jeans, but it was unmistakably her, Jeanie, leader of the group that had tried to abduct him that fateful night. Had she not been his almost-kidnapper, he might have found her fairly attractive. As if hearing her name in his thoughts, she abruptly looked directly at him, noticing him for the first time. He had to calm himself down with the thought that he now remembered how to magically compensate for physical shortcomings as recognition flashed in amethyst orbs.

"Ah… It's you, healer boy. Hello," she greeted amicably with a cheerful smile, walking closer, the slender steel heels of her violet suede boots clicking sharply on the asphalt.

Instinctively, he took a step back. "W-What do you want?" he demanded suspiciously, hating the slight quiver he could hear in his voice. _Calm down. You can defend yourself this time,_ he told himself firmly.

She paused, looking slightly thoughtful. "Ah… You're still upset over that night, yeah? Well, chill. I quit."

Ky blinked at the woman before him. "Quit?" he echoed simply, somewhat lost for words.

"Yeah," she agreed easily, not a trace of deception in her raspy soprano. "It's just a job, you know? Got hired to grab you for some greedy granddad who wanted to make some big bucks by charging death-fearing people exorbitantly for your healing services. But I'd rather not mess with that man."

"That man..?" He still wasn't quite sure he followed.

"Commander Sol Badguy. You're with him, aren't you? I'm not stupid or desperate enough to risk his wrath," Jeanie explained patiently. "Not like that miser paid all that well anyway," she added as an afterthought, running a hand through her somehow stylishly messy locks.

"Ah…" That made sense, he supposed, and he had yet to find anything suspicious in her explanation. "Does he still intend to capture me?" he asked slowly.

"Who, my former employer?"

Ky nodded.

"Who knows?" she replied. "If he does, he'll be hiring someone else. It's not my problem." She paused. "He's stupid if he does, though you can't tell how far greed will drive some people."

"I guess…" he responded hesitantly, not knowing what to say. How did you carry on a normal conversation with someone who'd tried to kidnap you and who nearly helped get you raped? "What about your friends? Aren't you… upset about what became of them?" he enquired tentatively at last.

"Friends?" The woman looked puzzled. "Oh. Collin and Jerome? Nah, they're not friends, just industry acquaintances all hired separately for the same job by the same person. Tough luck for them, I guess." She shrugged carelessly.

The blond thought it was rather cold of her to say so, since she was at least partially indirectly responsible for what had befallen them, but chose not to comment on that.

"Well, I've got a life waiting, healer boy, so ciao!" With that and a casual wave of her hand, she sauntered past him as he cautiously sidestepped out of her reach anyway, not even looking back as she shoved her hands in her pockets.

Still slightly disoriented from the adrenaline that had flooded his bloodstream from the slight burst of panic and the anticlimactic encounter that had followed, he resumed walking home in a half daze, thoughts whirling. Now that Sol wasn't here, he would have to deal with any attackers on his own. In a different lifetime, this wouldn't have been a problem, but he was well aware that it would take quite a bit of training to regain his fighting abilities, something his mind now remembered rather well, but his body was incapable of performing. He had to come up with a defensive plan quickly. Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice the object lying on the stone-paved path through the little bit of lawn from the outer metal gate to the door of his apartment block until he nearly tripped over it.

Eyes widening as recognition hit him immediately with a sharp burst of alarm, he picked it up and scanned the vicinity for its owner. There was no one around, not on the two stone benches on either side of the path where visitors without the access code could wait for their hosts' return nor anywhere in sight. He glanced back down at the red metal headpiece in his hand worriedly. Inscribed with the words 'ROCK YOU' roughly carved into the metal surface, it was definitely Sol's, and the Gear was a hazard to everything and everyone without this limiter. He didn't know what he would do when he found the other man, but he had to locate the American, and swiftly.

Turning, he caught sight of something he hadn't noticed earlier. On the stone step up to the black wooden door of his apartment block was a reddish brown speck. He hurried across the necessary three steps towards it, feeling a distinct sense of dread rising in his chest. Blood. Anxiety filled him as he punched in the access code, still gripping the headband tightly in his hand, and ran into the building dimly lit by the weak sunlight shining through the windows beside the door. Not wanting to wait for the tiny and slow elevator, he tore up the stairs to the second of six floors, hoping he would find Sol in his apartment and not knowing which possible scenario playing out in his mind was worse: that Sol was badly injured or that he had injured an innocent in his berserk Gear mode.

Everything flew out of his mind when he finally reached the second floor landing to take in the sight that greeted him: the brunet slumped against his cream-coloured apartment door, seemingly unconscious, with blood around him that even his thick light brown cloak couldn't hide and the Gear mark on his forehead glowing its ugly orange weakly. In an instant, he was kneeling beside the other man, terror flooding his system in a tidal wave as he undid the cloak to see the large gash in the man's side. Then he was patting the other's cheek gently but sharply in hopes of getting some response, any response, out of the wounded man.

"Sol. Sol! Please, answer me!! SOL!!" he called, his slightly nasal tenor rising in panic. _Please no, Sol, you can't die on me. You can't. You just can't… You don't even know who I am yet…_ "SOL!!!"

Abruptly, the Gear mark flared brightly and Ky found himself pinned to the floor under the other's heavier and more muscular form, staring up into bloodshot red eyes with a golden gleam in their depths he wasn't sure he wasn't imagining. Long fangs were bared at him fiercely in a berserk reflexive response to the possible threat as the Gear growled low in its throat as a warning. Fear and relief vied for dominance as he wisely remained still, not raising any defences in hopes of convincing the other that he was no threat to the brunet's already fragile safety.

"Sol..?" he tried tentatively. "It's me… Ky…" he whispered. "Sol… It's alright… Let me help you…" _Don't panic…No shields, no abrupt movement… Hopefully, if he doesn't think I'm dangerous, he'll calm down._

No response.

He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again pleadingly. "Please… Sol… Don't do this now."

He only received a fierce growl for his efforts. His voice, his words… they weren't reaching the older man. He slid his eyes shut resignedly as he felt hot breath on his throat when razor sharp fangs descended. He considered releasing a blast of magic at the other, but that would only worsen the other's injuries, and he couldn't bear the thought that he might end up killing his once-sworn rival.

_I suppose there's no other way around it then… I'll just have to let him rip my throat out with his fangs, _he thought with a hint of bitter amusement. It wasn't supposed to end this way, but between kill or be killed, he'd take the latter for Sol. _Sol… I'm sorry…Don't blame yourself…_

Suddenly, he felt all the air leave him as the brunet collapsed onto him like deadweight, his blue eyes flying open in surprise. The injuries had taken their toll, and the other had slipped out of consciousness again. Relief mingled with his surprise when he realized that he had just barely escaped with his life, and he could still feel the other's shallow breaths. Quickly, he put his hand to the gash, letting his power heal the wound. He fervently thanked the Heavenly Father for blessing him with this ability in this lifetime, unable to imagine having to watch the American die before his eyes.

Even as he prayed, he realized that he would never be able to escape the sin of loving Sol Badguy. Whatever he had thought of, whatever plans he might have had, to put everything behind him and move on without the brunet vanished from his mind the instant he saw the man again. There was no way to stop. And if that was what it took to save them both, to make them both happy… If forsaking his soul was the price he had to pay, he would pay it. He closed his eyes, raising his left hand to stroke soft brown strands gently, and said a prayer for forgiveness. He only hoped God would understand and not be too angry. Maybe it was weakness, but while he wasn't sure of much at that moment, he was sure he didn't want a world without his beloved in it.

_Sol…Maybe I'll go to hell for this…but at least… at least I'll be with you._

* * *

He blinked slowly, blearily. His vision was clouded somehow; his eyes wouldn't focus. 

_People._ There were so many people milling around.

_White._ They were wearing white. They looked like lab coats.

A muffled garble sounded. He couldn't make it out, so he tried to ask, "What?" but it came out in a grunt. He couldn't seem to make his voice work right.

There was a glint in the light. _A needle,_ his mind told him. What was it for? He couldn't remember. He tried racking his mind again. He couldn't remember. Why?

Before anything could properly register, pain seared through his body. He saw white again, a hot white that burned through his already cloudy vision. _Pain. Pain, pain, PAIN._

And then everything went orange. _Move,_ someone –or rather something- said, no, screamed at him. _MOVE. MOVE. GET OUT. KILL! DESTROY!! NEUTRALIZE DANGER!!! MOVE!!!_ And orange became red, and screaming was all he heard, and fear was all there was. Fear, it flooded his bloodstream because something was wrong. The red. The red was wrong. It wasn't supposed to be red. The noise and commotion around him was wrong. What was the racket about? Why did anything have to be so loud? _Get out. Get out. Get out of me, of here. _He wanted to tear out his hair in frustration. _Go away. GO AWAY!!! _He started running, unable to stand it any longer; it was red, all red, and the noise… like a hundred forks on a chalkboard, it was driving him insane. _It's wrong. It's wrong. It's not supposed to hurt. It's not supposed to be this way!!_ he screamed. He ran and ran, away from the red and the noise and everything that should not be and should never be, and then finally, there was a cool black rising to meet him. He dove to meet it gladly.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. It was quiet and peaceful. The noise was gone. He slowly opened his eyes. His vision was clear now, and he found himself automatically trying to figure out which constellation he was looking at in the clear night sky. As usual, he couldn't tell, but it proved that he could now think without being interrupted by horrid noises, searing pain or frantic voices. He didn't know where he was exactly, although fine desert sand slipped through the fingers of his right hand as he gathered some and let the grains fall back to the ground.

He continued to lie there, enjoying the peace. He would be in grave danger soon because he had made a mistake. He should have thought more about it before risking his life for a fleeting dream. And now… He wasn't sure if he would rather have died in a failed experiment or face the danger possible success brought. But he would have to hide himself, and soon, for they would find him. They would try to make more creatures like him to destroy everything that stood in their way. They would turn him into a lab rat and kill him. But for now, it was strangely warm as the wind tousled his hair gently and caressed his bare skin. He decided to sleep for a while, to rest before it all went to hell tomorrow. Or perhaps everything was in hell already.

* * *

Mismatched eyes blinked slowly, readjusting to the light. It was warm despite the light breeze he felt on his back. The scent of vanilla and honey was pleasant, and fingers carded through his hair gently. He felt strangely at peace. Suddenly, as if dropped off onto him from a high cliff, memories flooded his mind in a rush. He had staggered into the small apartment compound after letting himself in through the small black metal gate and had to remove the Gear Cell Control Device there to release more of his Gear powers. The trip up to the second floor in the tiny elevator was probably the longest elevator ride he'd ever had to endure, but he'd finally arrived at the kid's front door only to discover that he couldn't sense the other's familiar presence anywhere in the vicinity. He had sunk to the floor then and lost consciousness promptly. 

Suddenly, the feeling of the slender form beneath him and the significance of the sweet scent in the air registered in his mind, as well as the fact that the fingers stroking his hair and the arm around his waist had to belong to a certain someone. Sol pushed off the other in a single swift motion forgetting the gash in his side for the moment and was pleasantly surprised when no pain came as he steadied himself with his back to the open window. The kid had healed him after all. Said kid was now picking himself off the floor slowly, dusting off his white turtleneck and loose-fitting blue jeans. Even as he stared at the younger man, a familiar item was held out to him, and he took the headpiece wordlessly, strapping it firmly back to his forehead to hide the Gear mark there. Then they stood there on the landing, facing each other in somewhat heavy silence.

Finally, Ky broke it. "I'm sure I've said this before, but a little gratitude goes a long way." His lecturing tone was almost cold.

"And I'm sure I told you to mind your own damn business." The reply was gruff and even as usual, and the American made himself comfortable by perching slightly on the windowsill, wrapping his bloodstained cloak properly back around himself.

"You did," the blond affirmed with a slight, almost mirthless laugh. "And both times I tried to help your ungrateful self nearly cost me my life, if memory serves." He looked up then, meeting mismatched eyes directly with his azure gaze. "I wonder why I bother…"

Sol looked away first, reaching into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes there, shaking one out and lighting it with a bit of magic. It suddenly struck him what the other was really saying as he inhaled the first calming puff of tobacco smoke, and he looked back into blue eyes as realization dawned. The familiar weariness had returned to those clear aquamarines, and it made the boy seem older than he really was. Well, his mind and soul were nearly twice the age of his body after all.

"Glad to see death hasn't changed you, boy," he acknowledged softly, closing his eyes in quiet acceptance.

Ky offered a wry smile at that. "Nor the passage of time you," he replied, just as soft, for once not complaining about being addressed like a child.

Silence descended again, and this time, neither seemed inclined to break it. Sol decided it was about time he left. Now that his wounds were healed, he had no reason to stay and endanger the boy. Besides, the blond was probably only helping him for old times' sake; he was even rather surprised that the Ky he remembered, who hated Gears rather vehemently, hadn't taken the opportunity to kill him already. He pushed off the windowsill and began walking towards the stairs.

"Thanks for the fix-up, boy," he drawled as he passed the former Commander and began his descent down the staircase.

"How many times do you want to leave me..? Sol?" The hoarsely whispered question stopped him in his tracks against his will.

He closed his eyes and silenced a heavy sigh. "As many times as I have to," he replied quietly without turning.

A pause. "Why did you come back?" Even at that volume, he could hear the blond's voice cracking with some kind of emotion. The storm was coming.

"I don't trust doctors."

"… And that night..?"

"…was exactly what it was: one night."

Ky paused again. Then, "Liar," he accused softly.

"You've always only seen what you wanted to see, Ky," Sol riposted evenly.

Out of the blue, an amazingly powerful fist connected with his jaw at blinding speed, throwing him off-balance and sending him flying down the stairs. He landed on his back and looked up to see the blond standing with his face to the floor and his fist clenched tightly, feeling the residual magic the slender man had used to bolster the punch dissipate even as fury rose fiercely within him. Even in his weakened state, Sol was far from frail, and he leapt to his feet instantly. In a flash, he had the younger man pinned to the wall by his collar.

"What was that for?" he demanded in a harsh growl.

"For being such an… asshole!" Ky retorted angrily, the last word feeling foreign on his lips but incomparably apt for his purpose. "Just admit it, Sol! That night you literally hauled me to bed because you were lonely, and you know it!!" He yelled, voice rising in livid frustration as he shoved roughly against the American's broad shoulders.

"I—" the brunet began, about to launch an irate rejoinder, but was abruptly cut off by warm lips pressed hungrily against his own.

And like he hadn't been able to resist the boy then, he was kissing the blond back now just as harshly, vying for dominance with his tongue as hands buried themselves in his hair, and his own slid under the other's white sweater to touch bare skin. The other's willowy form arched against him in need and desire, and he wound his arms around the slim waist to draw their bodies closer. Just then, air made its absence in their lungs known, and they broke off, panting lightly. Ky smiled up at him, cupping his cheek gently with his hands, and he knew he'd lost this battle. The boy would never let him leave now. He closed his eyes and pressed his headband to the other's bare forehead.

"We should go inside…" the former Commander said with a breathless chuckle. "I've forgotten all the excuses I came up with just now for being pinned to the floor or wall outside my apartment by another man in case my neighbours passed by."

Sol only let out a sharp bark of laughter at that.

"It's not that I mind being discovered now, but it's really quite shameless even for a normal couple," he explained quickly. "And most of them only work if you're unconscious anyway…" As if suddenly realizing that he was rambling, he abruptly switched topics. "There's coq au vin in the oven for lunch," he announced.

The boorish American allowed his lips to curve up in a small smile at that. He was just getting hungry. "I guess I'll stay."

The rare glow of happiness that shone in azure orbs at those four simple words was a reward in itself.

* * *

Once again, much thanks to: 

**Ishiwatari Daisuke** for a great game with nice, slashable characters

**Meinarch** for her valuable opinions and beta-ing

**Raging Tofu** (and you'd all better thank her too) for bugging me to write and reminding me that there are people waiting for an update

**All readers and REVIEWERS** for giving me a reason to keep writing this


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